When  Folks 

Was  Folks 


By 
ELIZABETH  L.  BLUNT 


Cochrane  Publishing  Company 

Tribune  Building 

New  York 

1910 

01- 


Copyright,  1910,  by 
COCHRANE  PUBLISHING  Co. 


UNIV.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


To  My  Children 


2125600 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS. 
(An  idyl  of  the  1840's) 

"There  comes  a  voice  that  wakes  my  soul, 
It  is  the  voice  of  the  years  that  are  gone ; 
They  roll  before  me  with  their  deeds." 

OSSIAN. 


CONTENTS. 


I— OLD  RAVENNA 7 

II — UNDER  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  HILL     .      .  17 

III — GRANDMOTHER  LEE  AND  AUNT  BETSY  .      .  26 

IV — GRANDMOTHER'S   PARLOR 37 

V — OLD  SQUARE  BIBBINS     .......  43 

VI — THE  SABBATH 53 

VII — GRANNY  GARNSEY 63 

VIII — BRIDGET  DONOVAN 73 

IX — JENNET 76 

X— UNCLE  BEN 88 

XI— OLD  SAM 94 

XII— THE  MITE  SOCIETY    .      . 101 

XIII— THE  QUILTING .107 

XIV— ENOCH'S  WIFE 114 

XV— THE  LOG  HOUSE 120 

XVI — ELDER  PERKINS 132 

XVII — THE  SINGING-SCHOOL 138 

XVIII — (1)  GENERAL  TRAINING 143 

(2)  THE  DONATION  PARTY       ....  146 
XIX — DEACON    LEE — THE    PASSING    OF    THE 

PURITAN 151 

XX — THE  CLASH  OF  THE  OLD  AND  NEW      .      .  163 

XXI — JENNET  HAS  A  BEAU 167 

XXII— L'ENVOI  172 


When  Folks  Was  Folks 


CHAPTER  I. 
OLD  RAVENNA. 

IN  central  New  York,  where  the  hills  are  high  and  the 
valleys  narrow,  and  where  pebbly  stones  are  a  full  half 
of  the  furrow  turned  by  the  plow,  there  runs  a  small 
stream  whose  waters/  at  last  pour  themselves  into  the 
Susquehanna.  With  a  soft  fringe  of  willow  it  glides 
through  groves  of  maple,  bass  and  buttonwood,  where 
wild  grape-vines  climb  to  ripen  their  clusters  in  the  early 
frosts.  Butternuts  and  beeches  drop  hospitality  and  cheer 
for  winter  hearth  and  squirrel's  nest.  And  behind,  the 
meadows  break  suddenly  into  steep  hills  with  a  broad 
calm  sweep  of  sky-line. 

Here,  the  best  part  of  a  century  back,  lived  a  com- 
munity of  farmers.  Large  houses  with  comfortable  out- 
buildings, well-stocked  dairies,  kitchen  gardens,  poultry 
yards  and  smoke-houses ;  cellars  bursting  with  potatoes, 
onions,  turnips,  parsnips,  carrots,  squash  and  pumpkins; 
nuts  and  apples  from  ungrafted  orchards,  with  pasture 
and  wind-fall  growing  wild  berries — all  bespoke  the  thrift 
and  ease  that  come  close  on  the  heels  of  pioneers  when 
decent  folk  think  it  no  shame  to  be  provincial. 

The  second  generation  was  still  cutting  down  forests 
to  secure  a  wider  acreage,  and  pushing  them  into  pits  to 
be  burned  to  charcoal.  Cords  of  hemlock  bark  ready 
stripped  for  the  tannery  lined  the  highways.  Strange 
looking  peddlers  were  wandering  over  the  country  roads 
with  huge  packs  tied  up  in  bed-ticking,  equally  eager  for 


8  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

Spanish  shillings  and  a  knowledge  of  the  English  language. 
Other  hawkers  traversed  regular  routes  with  horse  and 
wagon,  carrying  household  articles  for  barter.  If  these 
seldom  missed  a  customer,  they  met  their  match  in  the 
shrewd  housewife  eager  to  exchange  her  salt  pork,  but- 
ter, cheese,  or  wood  ashes  at  a  bargain.  In  train  too 
came  the  tinker  to  mend  the  family  tin-ware,  to  sit  by 
the  kitchen  fire  and  dispense  neighborhood  gossip,  or  now 
and  then  bring  a  welcome  bit  of  news  from  remote  rela- 
tive or  friend  who  lived  within  the  circle  of  his  wan- 
derings. 

Travel  was  slow  and  laborious.  Merchants  went  once 
or  twice  a  year  to  Albany  or  New  York,  and  when 
after  fifty  miles  by  stage  over  rough  muddy  roads  they 
reached  the  Erie  Canal,  the  rest  of  the  journey  by 
packet  was  a  luxury  indeed.  One  venturesome  young 
man  had  gone  as  far  South  as  New  Orleans  selling 
Magnetic  Ointment  and  Mudge's  Pills — a  feat  which 
for  distinction  ranked  him  with  ex-congressmen  and 
patriots  who  had  gained  coveted  honors  by  serving  in 
the  State  militia. 

The  valley  already  boasted  a  few  industries;  a  saw- 
mill, a  grist-mill,  a  cooper-shop,  which  made  sap  buckets 
and  butter-tubs  for  sugar-bush  and  dairy,  a  tannery 
where  rawhides  were  turned  to  leather  to  be  fashioned 
again  into  boots  and  shoes  by  the  village  shoemaker; 
a  carding-machine  where  huge  fleeces  became  the  rolls 
of  wool  that  the  housewife  spun  and  knit  into  stockings 
and  mittens,  and  a  woollen-mill  that  wove  fulled  cloth 
for  men's  wear,  and  stuff  for  blankets  and  winter  dresses. 
A  few  miles  to  the  north  the  De  Lands  were  making 
their  first  rude  experiments  in  pearl-ash,  and  near-by 
stood  the  long  curious  shed  that  harbored  the  rope-walk. 
These,  with  a  tin-shop,  a  harness-shop,  and  a  gun-shop, 
met  the  simple  needs  of  the  community. 


Up  the  valley  about  midway,  where  the  road  lingers 
a  moment  under  shadow  of  the  long  hills,  lay  Ravenna, 
the  largest  and  most  thriving  of  its  tiny  villages.  Here 
was  the  ''Brick  Store,"  on  whose  counters  everything 
was  current,  from  calico  and  candy  to  hardware  and 
paper.  Farm  products  could  be  exchanged  for  coffee, 
spice,  and  tools.  The  post-office  was  in  one  corner,  and 
on  the  next  floor  above  was  housed  the  village  lawyer, 
making  his  tidy  profit  off  the  quarrels  of  his  neighbors. 

Chairs  drawn  up  around  the  warm  stove  furnished  a 
general  lounging-place  after  the  day's  work  was  done. 
Here  on  the  long  wintry  evenings  hard-featured,  kindly 
men,  with  a  heavy  sense  of  duty,  weighed  in  a  sort  of 
honest  shrewdness  the  advantages  and  disadvantages  of 
annexation  with  Texas.  Or, 'interspersed  with  the  filling 
of  clay  pipes,  spitting  at  a  mark,  and  heaping  fresh  logs 
on  the  fire,  the  veterans  of  "eighteen-twelve"  would  ha- 
rangue with  authority  on  Clay  and  Webster,  Calhoun  and 
Randolph.  And  when  the  mystery  of  life  had  them  in 
its  grip,  as  from  time  to  time  it  gets  us  all,  they  would 
pound  out  some  theory  of  accidents,  prospect  on  the  na- 
ture of  life  after  death,  speculate  on  the  fate  of  Brigham 
Young  driven  from  Illinois  at  point  of  bayonet,  or  guess 
the  portent  of  the  fiery  comet  seen  at  noon-day./ 

Not  far  from  the  Brick  Store  was  a  little,  low,  one- 
roomed  shop  that  bore  the  sign — N.  B.  Ives,  Tailor. 
Here  I  was  sent  once  a  year  for  list  to  nail  on  the  door- 
ways against  the  winter  cold.  The  tailor's  goose  on  the 
stove,  Sniffin  sewing  on  the  bench,  the  smell  of  pressed 
woollen,  and  the  sleek  master  of  the  shop,  made  a  picture 
still  fresh  in  my  mind — this,  and  the  school-children  call- 
ing along  the  street — "Take  notice !  Take  notice,  Ives  !" 

The  fashion  plates  in  the  window  were  my  delight. 
The  men  were  so  handsome  and  so  elegantly  dressed — 
far  more  so  than  any  who  walked  the  streets  of  our  vil- 


10  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

lage;  they  could  be  matched  only  by  the  fair  damsels 
who  minced  in  wonderful  toilettes  across  the  page  of 
colored  fashions  in  Godey's  Ladies'  Book  with  red  and 
blue  and  purple  gowns,  fringed  crepe  shawls,  and  pink 
bonnets  tied  under  the  chin,  flaring  to  show  their  "arti- 
ficials." 

The  tailor  was  the  most  dressy  man  in  the  village,  his 
clothes  at  the  same  time  advertising  his  business,  and 
satisfying  an  inner  craving  for  the  beautiful.  In  his' 
idle  moments  he  cultivated  an  avocation  that  gained  him 
some  distinction.  It  was  in  the  day  before  Wickwire 
had  invented  screens,  and  as  the  business  of  fly-catching 
was  not  yet  lucrative,  it  was:  still  honorable  and  might 
even  be  classed  with  the  arts.  When  business  was  dull, 
"Take  Notice  Ives"  would  sk  in  his  chair  at  the  Brick 
Store,  and,  let  him  but  raise  his  hand,  conversation  would 
stop,  interest  become  intense,  wagers  fly  fast ;  seldom 
indeed  did  it  fall  without  a  buzzing  prisoner.  No  other 
could  do  the  trick  more  than  once  in  a  thousand  times. 
This  skill  alone  made  him  a  noted  man,  and,  in  later 
years,  his  trade  given  up,  he  pursued  no  other  business. 

The  man  who  did  the  sewing  in  the  shop  was  called 
Sniffin,  a  good  name  for  one  who  sat  cross-legged  and 
silent  on  the  tailor's  bench  all  the  week,  stitching,  stitch- 
ing— as  I  thought,  just  doing  women's  work.  No  one 
knew  where  he  had  come  from,  for  the  heat  of  argu- 
ment never  drew  from  him  more  than  a  bare  "Yes"  or 
"No." 

Sunday  he  got  off  his  wooden  bench,  and  we  found 
he  had  only  one  leg.  Often  he  would  hobble  away  by 
himself  and  spend  the  whole  day  on  the  grass  in  some 
corner  of  the  rail  fence  by  the  roadside.  When  driving 
to  church,  all  safely  tucked  under  my  father's  arm,  I 
found  him  an  object  of  interest,  whittling  his  stick,  or 
eating  an  apple,  and  muttering  under  his  breath. 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  11 

But  if  I  were  on  foot  and  alone,  it  was  different.  Still 
an  object  of  dread  even  when  silent  and  grave,  if.  in  a 
rage,  he  began  thrashing  his  arms  wildly  about  his  head, 
well,  he  was  sublime.  Many  a  time  I  have  turned  and 
fled,  or  boldly  asserting,  "God  will  take  care  of  me — 
God  will  take  care  of  me,"  I  have  walked  by  very  fast 
on  the  other  side  of  the  road.  Snifnn's  eye!  I  really 
dared  not  glance  behind  for  fear  he  should  be  looking. 
He  lived  to  be  very  old  and  died  quite  peacefully  in  his 
bed,  but  not  so  long  ago,  and  he  had  paid  the  penalty  of 
the  Evil  Eye. 

Across  the  street  was  the  shop  of  Jeremiah  Dix,  on 
the  upper  shelves  of  which  stood  long  rows  of  silk  hats 
carefully  done  up  in  white  papers  lest,  in  the  long  inter- 
vals between  calls  for  this  genteel  article,  their  fair  lustre 
be  dimmed  with  the  soil  and  grime  of  the  everyday 
world.  These  hats  had  come  from  Albany  years  before 
when  Jeremiah  had  returned  from  serving  his  appren- 
ticeship, and  were  a  monument  to  his  craft,  for  in  those 
days  the  skill  of  a  hatter  lay  not  so  much  in  the  selling, — 
the  people's  needs  regulated  that — as  in  the  making. 
Wool  hats  with  their  air-tight  guarantee  were  still  a  new 
thing.  They  were  made  in  the  back  room  where,  in  the 
air  thick  from  steaming  boilers  of  hot  suds  and  dyes, 
Conkey  sat  all  day  stretching  wet  wool  over  wooden 
blocks. 

Conkey  was  a  great  man.  This  small  wiry  frame  that 
might  be  carrying  any  number  of  years  from  youth  to 
age  housed  a  fervid  soul.  No  villager  ha'd  been  so  far 
as  he.  Born  somewhere  on  the  Cornish  coast,  he  had 
plunged  still  deeper  into  mystery  by  the  strange  char- 
acter of  his  sea  voyages,  and  his  adventures  in  far  coun- 
tries among  hitherto  unknown  peoples.  A  veritable  Sin- 
bad  was  Conkey  to  the  boys,  who  would  collect  about 
him  on  summer  evenings  as  he  sat  smoking  his  pipe  in 


12  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

front  of  the  shop.  Poor  D.  P.  C.  Conkey!  He  used 
often  in  sentimental  mood  to  translate  his  numerous 
initials  as,  "Damn  Poor  Cuss  Conkey,"  all  which  gave 
him  enviable  distinction  with  the  rising  generation. 

"It's  the  dimijohn,  boys,  the  dimijohn  we  uses  in  the 
hart  o'  'at-manufacture  as  'as  cut  my  career  in  his  flow- 
er," and  Conkey  would  shake  his  head  in  warning,  for 
no  one  in  Ravenna  had  more  correct  moral  ideas  than 
he,  poor  soul.  Yet  I  doubt  if  there  was  a  boy  there  but 
would  gladly  have  embraced  the  demijohn,  crippled  ca- 
reer, and  life  among  steaming  vats,  to  be  the  hero  of 
Conkey's  yarns.  Nor  for  all  his  wise  saws  could  you 
suspect  Conkey  at  bottom  of  the  least  dissatisfaction 
with  his  lot. 

The  refreshing  smile  of  Jeremiah  Dix  in  some  measure 
counteracted  the  smell  of  greasy  wool  and  fur,  and  the 
shop  was  a  favorite  place  for  talking  over  local  politics, 
and  discussing  the  latest  news  from  Congress.  The  good 
cheer  dispensed  so  freely  from  behind  the  counter  was 
a  famous  antidote  for  blues.  Jeremiah  had  walked  on 
one  foot  with  the  help  of  a  crutch  since  he  was  twelve 
years  old,  and  even  now  in  middle  life  he  sometimes 
suffered  agonies  from  the  rude  surgery  of  eighteen- 
twenty-five,  whose  smooth  cut  had  left  the  cords  and 
muscles  to  shrink  back,  causing  the  most  exquisite  tor- 
ture. Yet  in  spite  of  the  pain,  and  the  second  operation, 
undergone  without  anaesthetic,  the  awkward  crutch,  and 
humble  '  pride,  no  one  in  the  village  so  kindly,  so  un- 
selfish, so  helpful  as  Uncle  Jeremiah. 

"Don't  cry,  little  one,"  he  says  to  the  child  in  tears 
because  her  kitten  is  lost.  "What !  Did  kitty  run  away 
on  four  legs?  She'll  run  back  on  four  legs,  see  if  she 
don't." 

To  Wilson,  poor  and  discouraged,  laboring  in  a  near- 
by village  over  his  not  yet  completed  sewing-machine, 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  13 

"What  does  that  long  face  mean?"  he  would  exclaim. 
"You're  as  solemn  as  the  town-clock.  Why,  you're  a 
young  man.  Keep  your  courage  up !  you'll  be  a  million- 
aire yet !  Then  you'll  look  down  on  us  poor  country 
folk.  Ha!  ha!  ha!" 

And  long  after,  when  Wilson's  invention  had  harvested 
its  million,  he  sought  out  the  one-legged  man  and  thanked 
him  for  his  example  of  pluck  and  persistence,  which  beat 
back  untoward  circumstances  and  scattered  a  kind  of 
bottled  sunshine  wherever  he  went. 

Up  and  down  the  street  from  the  Brick  Store  and  its 
humble  neighbors  stretched  a  row  of  white  houses  with 
green  blinds,  each  in  the  center  of  a  grass  plot,  cool 
with  the  shade  of  elms  and  maples.  Well-worn  paths  led 
through  daffodils  and  pinks  to  side  stoops  shrouded  in 
lilacs  and  syringas.  From  behind  came  glimpses  of  neat 
kitchen  gardens  bright  with  occasional  hollyhocks  and 
roses.  Fresh,  clean,  sunny,  in  and  out,  there  was  little 
here  to  suggest  the  mystery  or  romance  of  decay. 

But  in  the  Lower  Village,  wrapped  in  a  distinction  of 
flagstone  walks,  gloomy  pines,  and  fantastic  story,  was 
the  Red  Brick  House.  Here  had  lived  since  long  before 
eighteen-twelve  old  Aristarchus  Edred,  who,  as  tradi- 
tion went,  had  wed  Abigail  Howe  in  the  woods  by 
moonlight. 

Again  and  again  must  the  grandmothers  tell  the  story 
of  those  first  days — how  as  yet  marriage  had  raised  no 
question  of  licensed  preacher,  and  how  Aristarchus  must 
go  twenty  miles  away  to  fetch  one  from  the  neighboring 
county.  The  wedding  day  dawned  fair — thus  ran  the 
tale — over  the  hill  rode  Aristarchus  and  his  prize.  With 
noise,  and  bustle  and  shout  came  the  lumbering  country 
wagons  packed  with  guests,  and  along  forest  trails  gal- 
loped many  a  good  man  stout  in  his  saddle,  child  in  front 
and  good  wife  on  the  blanket  behind. 


14  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

Wraps  once  bestowed  on  the  spare  bed  there  was  a 
hurried  rush  to  the  kitchen,  where  the  great  dinner  was 
in  preparation.  Stores  of  good  things  stood  ready  in 
the  pantries,  to  which  it  seemed  Grandmother  added 
some  new  and  delectable  dainty  with  every  repetition  of 
the  tale.  Roast  venison,  chickens,  turkeys,  pigs,  fruit 
cakes,  pound  cakes,  green  currant  and  dried-apple  pies, 
cookies,  crullers,  cups  of  custard  flecked  with  bits  of 
currant  jelly,  huge  decanters  of  elderberry  wine,  and 
ever  so  much  more,  Grandmother  would  assure  me.  A 
great  kettle  of  potatoes  was  hung  on  the  crane,  coffee 
simmered  on  the  hearth,  laughing,  busy,  chattering  wo- 
men flew  about  setting  the  table,  paring,  chopping,  slicing, 
tasting  everything. 

Meantime  in  the  front  yard  the  men  in  coarse  home- 
spun with  long  woolen  stockings  stood  around  or  leaned 
against  the  rail  fence  talking  of  the  crisis  now  Washing- 
ton was  dead,  prospecting  on  another  war  with  England, 
and  wondering  to  themselves  when  dinner  would  be 
ready. 

At  last  it  was  over,  the  dishes  washed,  and  the  wedding 
supper  laid.  The  ceremony  was  to  be  .early,  as  some  of 
the  guests  came  from  a  distance.  Now  book  in  hand 
the  long  black-coated  parson  stands  before  the  shrinking 
Abigail,  and  Aristarchus,  faultless  in  a  fresh-starched 
bosom,  black  satin  stock,  wine-colored  velvet  "wescot," 
black  coat  and  small  clothes,  white  silk  stockings,  and 
silver  buckled  shoes. 

"H'm !"  gasped  the  minister,  closing  the  book  with  a 
snap. 

"What's  the  matter  ?    What's  the  matter  ?" 

"Brethren."  Then  he  stopped  short.  He  looked 
around  vaguely  as  if  awakened  from  a  dream.  "Re- 
member His  majesty,  the  mystery  of  His  awful  dispen- 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  15 

sation,"  he  ran  on  as  if  seeking  inspiration  in  words. 
"Fix  your  minds  rather  on  the  goods  of  eternity " 

"What's  this  nonsense?"  asked  Aristarchus,  more  hu- 
man than  reverent. 

"Conquer  your  mind  in  the  Lord,  my  brother — say — 
He  giveth,  He  taketh  away — blessed  be  His  name  forever, 
amen.  But  let  not  this  hinder  the  refreshing  the  body — 
doth  not  the  Book  say  there  be  times  for  all  things?" 

"Why,  Elder !    What's  wrong  ?    What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"I  am  moved  by  a  divine  warning  that  I  may  not  law- 
fully perform  this  holy  rite  outside  the  precincts  of  my 
own  county." 

Imagine  the  wail  of  the  ladies,  the  lofty  unconcern  of 
the  men,  and  through  it  all  the  ringing  voice  of  Aris- 
tarchus. 

"Saddle  your  horses,  neighbors,  and  fetch  round  your 
wagons;  see  to  it  your  lanterns  have  plenty  of  oil;  I  say 
this  wedding  is  coming  off." 

There  is  a  clatter  of  horses'  hoofs,  .a  rumble  of  wagons 
over  rough  roads,  and  they  are  off  by  the  shortest  cut 
to  the  next  county.  There,  under  the  green  trees  of  a 
maple  grove,  by  the  light  of  the  moon  and  some  dozen 
or  two  hymeneal  torches,  Aristarchus  and  Abigail  are 
made  man  and  wife. 

Half  a  century  had  vanished,  and  the  lovers  as  I  knew 
them  were  old  and  grey  and  feeble.  Poor  Aristarchus! 
Poor  Abigail !  Little  enough  in  the  halting  step  and 
withered  cheek  to  recall  the  fire  and  beauty  of  that  long 
ago.  Yet  this  bit  of  poetry  rescued  from  the  twilight 
of  two  generations  was  like  a  magic  dew  in  which  the 
aged  couple  renewed  their  youth  each  morning — not  a 
child  in  the  village  who  tKbught  them  really  old. 

The  people  of  Ravenna  were  simple  folk  whose  ambi- 
tion aspired  no  further  than  to  thrift  in  business,  regular 
attendance  on  divinely  appointed  worship,  and  the  honest 


16  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

effort  to  be  good  men  and  women.  Neither  wealth  nor 
want  complicated  the  social  order.  They  did  the  best 
they  knew  with  what  they  had  to  make  life  useful  and 
attractive.  Living  for  the  most  part  happy  and  contented 
lives,  they  accepted  with  resolute  mind  what  of  grief  or 
disappointment  came  their  way,  unwracked  by  the  great 
passions  of  ambition,  jealousy,  emulation,  or  the  agony 
that  waits  on  lost  opportunity  and  failure. 


CHAPTER  II. 
UNDER  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  HILL. 

ABOUT  a  mile  from  the  Brick  Store,  on  a  road  winding 
up  from  the  valley  to  Union  Center,  there  stood  at  the 
time  of  which  I  speak  a  large  two-story  frame  house,  a 
broad  hall  running  through  the  middle  parlors  on  either 
side,  and  kitchen  and  dairies  stretching  back  into  a  fra- 
grant garden.  In  summer,  trees  and  shrubs  nearly 
screened  it  from  the  occasional  passer-by — a  mountain 
ash  crowned  with  scarlet  berries,  locusts  whence  the 
woodpecker  drew  his  breakfast  of  soft  grubs,  a  four- 
trunked  balm-of-Gilead  with  spicy  leaves  and  tasseled 
flowers,  and  maples  spreading,  in  the  strong  north  wind 
of  autumn,  a  rug  of  brown  and  yellow  and  crimson 
leaves  over  the  fading  greensward. 

Through  the  dooryard  wound  a  gravel  path  edged  with 
the  yellow  daffodils  of  early  spring,  and  the  hollyhocks, 
larkspur,  and  sweet  william  of  late  midsummer.  Clumps 
of  bluebells  and  columbine  nodded  in  every  breeze,  drop- 
ping their  shiny  seeds  in  autumn  for  the  next  year's 
resurrection.  Tall  heavy-scented  lilacs  and  wax-apple 
shrubs  stood  in  odd  corners,  with  here  and  there  bright 
bunches  of  peonies,  odorous  bergamot,  and  feathery 
stalks  of  caraway. 

To  the  rear  was  the  kitchen  garden,  full  of  summer 
vegetables  and  sweet-smelling  herbs.  A  well-worn  path 
led  to  the  early  apple  tree,  under  which  was  the  row  of 
bee-hives  overhung  on  hot  July  days  by  a  fretwork  of 
returning  insects  heavy  with  the  juice  and  perfume  of  far- 
away flowers.  Currant  and  gooseberry  bushes  lined  the 
fences,  not  too  nice  in  that  day  to  jostle  in  friendlywise 
with  nettles,  burdock,  worm-wood,  and  horseradish. 


18  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

Through  the  haze  of  near  three  quarters  of  a  century 
steals  the  picture  of  a  summer  afternoon — calves  feeding 
in  the  paddock  close  by,  pigs  crowding  and  pushing  the 
fence  in  the  lazy  comfort  of  a  noon-day  sleep ;  the  trickle 
of  the  spring  falling  into  the  trough  from  a  mass  of 
pussy-willows  and  ladies'  ear-drops ;  the  lane  climbing  the 
hill  whence  the  cows  came  at  nightfall  from  the  pasture 
high  toward  the  sky-line ;  cords  of  wood  ready  for  the  stove 
piled  by  the  kitchen  door,  or  lying  in  logs  to  be  chopped 
and  split  in  odd  hours,  and  chips  drying  in  the  sun  and 
wind ;  the  well-sweep  hung  from  the  tall  post  and  its  pail 
of  bricks  and  stones  to  balance  the  bucket  in  the  cool 
depths ;  the  bench  near-by,  with  the  basin  and  towel  and 
mirror,  poles  overrun  with  hop-vines  rustling  down  the 
roof  and  sides  of  the  stone  smoke-house  and  its  treasures 
of  hams  and  beef ;  across  the  road  the  barns,  the  long  line 
of  barn-swallows'  nests,  the  carriage-house,  the  famous 
two-seated  carriage,  the  heavy  pegs,  and  the  side-saddles. 

The  barnyard  is  almost  deserted,  the  old  hen-turkeys 
have  taken  their  broods  to  the  tall  grass,  and  only  the 
rustle  of  the  gray  tops  or  an  occasional  cluck-cluck  tell 
their  whereabouts.  The  ducks  have  waddled  off  to  the 
river — just  a  patch  of  gray,  green,  and  blue  in  the  dis- 
tance. Only  the  rooster  and  his  dozen  hens,  each  with 
a  flock  of  chickens  scratching  their  living  from  the  soil, 
breathe  of  life. 

And  behind  it  all  the  bulwark  of  the  valley — a  hill  so 
high  the  cows  never  reach  the  summit  and  the  path  of 
the  wood-choppers  is  lost  half  way.  When  the  sun  bids 
the  valley  good-bye  each  evening,  and  leaves  the  river 
and  its  shadows  and  the  branches  of  the  elms  dropping 
their  sorry  courtesies,  the  light  lingers  long  on  this  hill- 
top as  if  whispering  secrets  of  a  morrow  or  peeping  at 
the  forbidden  things  of  night.  Promise,  amid  gathering 
chaos,  of  a  glorious  dawn,  it  broods  over  the  valley  like 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  19 

that  other  Light  of  the  World — alone  in  the  whirl  of 
change.  Friends  may  die,  houses  fall  to  decay,  forests 
fade  in  a  night,  and  streams  bend  to  human  will — the 
hills  are  everlasting. 

One  generation  had  forced  this  scene  from  the  wilder- 
ness. At  the  opening  of  the  nineteenth  century  my  grand- 
father, old  "Square  Lee,"  had  moved  with  his  family  and 
goods  from  Lyme,  at  the  mouth  of  the  Connecticut  River, 
into  the  wilds  of  central  New  York.  They  came  with  two 
ox-teams  following  forest  trails,  camping  in  the  woods  at 
night,  braving  the  dangers  of  wild  beasts  and  still  wilder 
men.  But  pioneers  are  made  of  tough,  unyielding  fibre. 
Stout  arms  and  undaunted  courage  met  every  obstacle 
half  way,  and  through  long  vistas  came  glimpses  of  a 
horizon  glowing  with  high  hopes. 

All  this  had  been  a  half  century  past.  The  old 
"Square"  was  dead.  The  son  who  had  cleared,  planted, 
and  reaped,  taught  school  and  done  surveying,  laid  out 
townships  in  Tennessee,  and  slept  on  skins  by  trappers' 
fires  in  far-off  Canada,  hati  now  succeeded  to  his  father's 
duties,  managed  his  farm  with  care  and  thrift,  was  deacon 
in  the  church  and  a  man  of  some  importance  in  the 
village.  He  was  a  tall  athletic  man  with  rugged  face, 
dark  hair  and  eyes,  and  overhanging  brows — a  stern, 
solemn  face  belying  the  warm,  kind  heart  within. 

My  mother  was  a  sweet- faced  gentle- voiced  woman 
with  mild  blue  eyes,  and  soft  brown  hair  hanging  in  two 
curls  on  either  cheek,  the  whole  framed  in  a  dainty  cap 
of  lace  and  flowers  and"  ribbon.  There  was'  a  fineness 
about  her  that  made  her  beautful  even  in  old  age.  Her 
exquisite  needle-work  wrought  garments  specimens  of 
which  are  still  counted  heirlooms.  Through  long  sum- 
mer afternoons  she  would  sit  by  the  window  copying 
complex  patterns  of  roses  and  leaves  and  vines  upon  lace 
veils,  white  dresses,  or  baby-caps,  fastening  with  every 


20  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

thread  of  floss  loving  thoughts  of  the  coming  baby,  or 
forming  plans  of  how  she  could  add  some  brightness  to 
a  sister's  lot  that  was  not  so  free  as  hers. 

And  not  only  to  her  own  kin  did  her  sympathy  over- 
flow. She  saw  through  the  proud  reserve  of  self-respect- 
ing friends  whose  limited  purse  forbade  a  visit  to  dis- 
tant sister  or  mother,  and  her  resourceful  mind  would 
make  the  desire  a  fact.  I  have  been  told  she  got  my 
father  out  of  bed  one  cold  night  to  carry  food  and  cloth- 
ing to  a  poor  widow  whom  she  had  forgotten  in  the  after- 
noon. "The  poor  ye  have  always  with  you,  and  when 
ye  will  ye  may  do  them  good"  might  well  have  served 
as  the  motto  of  her  life.  "The  best  woman  that  ever 
lived  was  Deacon  Lee's  wife,"  said  an  old  man  recalling 
his  early  years  in  Ravenna;  "she  was  a  mother  to  us  all, 
invited  us  to  her  house  again  and  again,  and  did  what 
she  could  to  make  us  happy  and  useful." 

My  father's  house  was  open  to  any  one  who  claimed 
as  his  object  the  betterment  of  man,  be  he  colporteur 
selling  good  books,  temperance  lecturer,  anti-slavery  ad- 
vocate, traveling  preacher,  or  ministerial  candidate.  All 
gravitated  without  opposition  to  Deacon  Lee's.  There 
was  never  an  impatient  word  concerning  the  stay,  though 
it  might  lengthen  to  weeks  or  months.  The  team  was 
harnessed  for  every  church  meeting,  be  the  farm  work 
never  so  hurrying.  No  thought  of  hardship  or  burden 
tarnished  the  hospitality  of  this  home  or  marred  its  offer- 
ings to  religion. 

My  father  had  a  very  real  belief  in  the  practical  and 
pleasant  things  of  this  world.  His  was  the  first  cooking- 
stove  brought  into  the  village,  and  he  was  the  first  man 
in  his  part  of  the  county  to  achieve  the  luxury  and  dig- 
nity of  a  two-seated  covered  carriage.  This  latter  was 
the  pride  of  the  place,  and  brought  its  owner  honor  and 
responsibility  in  entertaining  the  few  public  visitors  who 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  21 

came  to  speak  on  the  Fourth  of  July,  or  to  address  the 
people  on  the  occasion  of  an  election. 

My  mother  was  a  careful  manager,  orderly  and  syste- 
matic. The  work  of  the  house  and  dairy  was  so  arranged 
that  she  and  those  who  assisted  her  could  have  time  to 
sit  down  in  the  afternoon  and  do  the  family  sewing. 
That  was  the  key-note  of  the  household — there  was  time 
for  everything.  Time  for  sewing,  for  reading,  for  visit- 
ing the  poor  and  sick,  for  keeping  up  a  healthy  social 
intercourse  with  her  neighbors,  for  the  closest  personal 
ties  and  sympathies  with  those  of  kin,  time  for  the  most 
unstinted  hospitality,  time  for  teaching  her  numerous 
younger  sisters  and  nieces  the  secrets  of  cooking  in  her 
kitchen.  An  invitation  to  stay  to  supper  was  as  sincere 
and  cordial  to  the  humblest  visitor  as  to  the  occasional 
wealthy  and  aristocratic  one.  It  never  seemed  a  bur- 
den to  the  purse  or  to  the  busy  hands  that  prepared  the 
meals, — a  few  unexpected  guests  to  supper. 

In  those  days  cheese — the  main  product  of  our  dairy — 
was  something  of  a  luxury,  and  no  friend  called  or  de- 
parted but  my  mother  slipped  a  three-cornered  piece 
into  her  bag.  The  younger  sisters,  Marcia  and  Adeline, 
who  often  made  part  of  the  household,  thought  it  simple 
to  be  always  giving  a  piece  of  Indian  bread,  or  cheese, 
or  pat  of  butter,  but  when  they  became  providers  them- 
selves, with  hungry  mouths  to  fill,  and  saw  their  sister 
coming  with  an  armful  of  her  pantry  products,  the  cus- 
tom wore  a  different  look. 

Family  gatherings  were  a  great  thing  in  those  days. 
Relatives  living  near-by  were  visited  often,  and  those 
farther  away  at  least  twice  a  year.  To  a  child  like  my- 
self, whose  life  held  promise  of  such  sure  delights  as 
gathering  herbs  with  Aunt  Betsy,  a  lump  of  maple 
sugar,  or  a  ride  to  mill  beside  my  father,  but  who  was 
not  surfeited  with  complex  toys  and  abnormal  pleasures, 


22  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

this  event  of  going  to  see  my  aunts  and  uncles  twenty 
and  forty  miles  away  was  interwoven  with  delicious 
expectation.  What  with  the  new  clothes,  the  jockey  hat, 
prospect  of  secrets  with  some  cousins  and  not  with 
others,  the  run  on  the  garden  wall,  I  already  felt  inde- 
pendent of  Aunt  Betsy's  company  and  Grandmother's 
stories. 

On  the  morning  of  the  departure  all  would  be  bustle 
at  the  barn.  Stephen  would  give  the  horses  an  extra 
feed  of  new  hay,  and  a  brimming  box  of  oats.  While  he 
put  on  the  silver-plated  harness,  he  would  shout  to  Led- 
yard,  "Roll  out  the  carriage  and  dust  the  cushions  and 
the  top,"  for  the  boys  took  as  much  pride  in  the  Deacon's 
equipage  as  the  owner  himself. 

In  the  house  my  father  would  be  putting  on  his  stiff 
dickey,  high  collar,  and  black  satin  stock,  and  brushing 
his  hair  up  straight.  My  mother  would  say,  "Adeline, 
put  in  a  piece  of  cheese  for  Deborah,"  and  Grandmother, 
"Jennet,  be  a  good  girl  and  keep  your  dress  clean,"  and 
Aunt  Betsy,  "I'll  be  some  lonely  till  you  get  back,  Jen- 
net," all  which  would  go  in  one  ear  and  out  the  other, 
so  anxious  was  I  to  get  on  the  front  seat  and  be  off. 

At  last  the  carnage  would  be  at  the  door,  the  trunk 
strapped  on  behind,  and  the  basket  of  apples  and  lunch 
pushed  under  the  back  seat.  Meantime,  too  happy  to  talk, 
with  the  goods  of  this  world  so  within  grasp,  I  would 
sit  quite  still  in  my  place,  legs  dangling,  given  up  for  the 
moment  to  thought  of  the  candy  waiting  in  the  little 
country  store  at  the  cross-roads. 

After  many  cautions  to  those  standing  at  the  gate  to 
remember  this  and  do  that,  we  would  at  last  be  off, 
mother  calling  back  from  the  carriage-window,  "Be  care- 
ful not  to  set  the  house  on  fire." 

The  level  valley  left  behind,  we  soon  began  climbing 
the  long  hills.  Father,  Grandmother,  and  Uncle  An- 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  23 

drew  would  tell  the  stories,  and  mother  and  I  ask  the 
questions.  What  joy  for  this  brief  space  not  to  be 
merely  seen !  It  was  a  real  vacation,  where  I  and  my 
elders  listened  in  turn. 

"See  that  house,"  said  Uncle  Andrew  on  one  occa- 
sion, pointing  to  a  neat  comfortable  farm-house  bearing 
the  unmistakable  stamp  of  thrift  and  economy,  "that's 
where  Misr  Pike  lives." 

"Alone?"  asked  mother. 

"Dear  no,"  said  Uncle  Andrew,  "she's  got  a  husband 
and  a  few  sons.  But  she's  the  boss,  you  understand." 

"I  know  her,"  broke  in  Grandmother,  "she's  so  stingy 
she'd  like  to  take  the  color  out  of  your  cheeks  to  save 
buying  cochineal." 

"The  same.  Well,  Dayton,  that's  the  second  boy,  and 
I  used  to  go  to  school  together,  and  knew  one  another 
pretty  well.  One  day  I  was  driving  by  and  reined  up 
for  a  talk.  'I  got  a  bushel  o'  blackberries  up  in  the  back 
lot  yesterday,'  he  said,  'come  in  and  have  a  piece  of  pie.' 
I  didn't  have  to  be  asked  twice,  for  it  had  been  a  long 
time  since  breakfast,  and  I  followed  him  round  to  the 
kitchen  door.  'We've  come  for  a  piece  of  blackberry 
pie,  mother,  one  of  those  you  baked  this  morning.'  At 
that  her  face  withered  up  like  a  spring  russet.  'Aint  din- 
ner-time/ was  all  she  said. 

'  'I  know,  but  what  d'ye  say  to  it's  bein'  time  for 
lunch?' 

'  'I  can't  cut  a  hot  pie ;  you'll  have  to  wait  for  dinner.' 

"I  was  sorry  for  Dayton,  he  looked  mortified  to  death. 
'I  suppose  the  law  of  the  cook  holds,'  was  all  he  said, 
and  we  walked  back  to  the  team." 

By  and  by  we  came  to  the  cross-roads,  the  little  store, 
the  candy,  and  a  great  still  meeting-house. 

"Do  you  know  Jonas  Prindle,  that  has  the  saw-mill 


24  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

on  Rock  Run  ?"  asked  Uncle  Andrew.  "Rather  an  under- 
sized man,  rather  pompous  and  slow  of  movement?" 

Everybody  knew  him  but  me. 

"Well,  he's  a  member  of  this  church,  and  one  Sunday, 
just  as  the  preacher  was  ready  to  begin  his  sermon,  a 
strange  woman  comes  in  dressed  in  an  extra  large  hoop. 
Joe  always  does  the  polite  thing,  you  know,  so  up  he 
gets,  not  very  fast,  but  just  grace ful-like,  while  the 
rest  are  taking  it  in  that  the  stranger  won't  have  any 
seat  of  her  own.  He  shows  her  up  to  one  of  the  pews 
in  the  side  front.  She  is  so  late  and  so  afraid  of  causing 
disturbance  she  doesn't  take  time  to  get  clear  in  or  close 
the  door  of  the  slip.  So  her  hoops  and  skirts  stand  out 
in  the  aisle  a  foot  or  more.  As  Jonas  turns,  his  heel 
catches  in  the  mesh.  He  throws  up  his  hands  to  get  his 
balance,  makes  a  spring,  stumbles,  jumps  again,  and 
only  saves  himself  by  falling  into  the  back  seat  at  the 
door.  Well,  you  know  the  Sunday  kind  of  stillness — 
it  was  just  like  a  toad,  his  jumpsi — they  say  it  was  one 
too  many  even  for  the  deacons;  there  was  a  general 
smile,  and  lots  of  folks  had  to  blow  their  nose — I  wonder 
if  Jonas  ever  thinks  of  hoops  when  he  sails  up  the  aisle 
like  a  ship  of  a  Sunday  morning." 

Climbing  one  of  the  longest  hills,  we  overtook  an  old 
man  carrying  a  heavy  bundle,  and  my  father  asked  him 
to  ride.  Conversation  began  about  the  weather,  the 
crops  of  hay  and  oats,  but  soon  turned  to  matters  in 
which  he  took  a  more  lively  interest.  He  knew  every 
person  we  met  on  the  road,  knew  them  and  all  their 
weak  points  as  if  they  had  been  his  own. 

"There  goes  Seth  Thomas ;  I  bought  three  bushels  of 
potatoes  of  him  ten  year  ago,  and  when  I  measured  'em 
up  after  he  had  gone  they  was  a  peck  short.  What  do 
you  think  'o  that?  He's  about  the  meanest  man  I  know, 
if  he  is  a  church  member." 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  25 

"Neighbor,"  said  my  father,  "I  guess  there's  some  good 
point  in  him,  now  confess;  can't  you  mention  one?" 

"Well,  stranger,  if  there  is,  it  would  take  the  devil  to 
find  it.  But  I  stop  here,  good  day,  and  thanks  for  the 
lift." 

"Poor  soul,"  said  my  father,  "if  he  finds  a  fault,  he 
makes  it  legion  by  repetition." 

Much  visiting  and  feasting  awaited  us  at  our  journey's 
end.  Friends  and  relatives  came  in  from  miles-  around, 
and  while  we  made  sad  havoc  of  the  roast  pig  and  his  ear 
of  green  corn,  the  turkey  and  chicken-pie,  ties  of  the  past 
were  once  more  renewed,  the  lost  threads  were  picked 
up,  varied  interests  became  personal,  and  sympathies 
were  freshened. 


CHAPTER  III. 
GRANDMOTHER  LEE  AND  AUNT  BETSY. 

THE  fire  on  the  old-fashioned  hearth-stone  blazed 
bright.  Some  brands  on  the  andirons  were  dropping 
coals  into  the  hot  ashes  below,  where  potatoes  had  just 
been  roasting,  and  there  was  a  delicious  odor  of  ham 
broiled  on  the  embers.  The  kettle  still  sang  on  the 
crane,  while  the  tea-pot,  drained  of  its  fragrant  Hyson, 
stood  empty  on  the  table. 

Grandmother  Lee  and  Aunt  Betsy  sat  in  their  com- 
fortable rocking  -  chairs,  splint  -  bottomed  but  soft  and 
easy  with  goose-feather  cushions.  They  had  just  pushed 
back  from  the  breakfast-table.  A  green  log  added  to  the 
fire  was  sending  out  its  spicy  smell  with  a  great  sputter, 
and  cackle  and  hiss. 

"Betsy,"  said  Grandmother,  "you're  not  feeling  well. 
What's  the  matter?" 

"Oh,  what  with  my  aches  and  pains  last  night " 

"There  it  is!  You  don't  go  at  it  right  to  keep  well — 
take  cold  baths  and  a  rub-down,  so  the  blood  gets  all  in  a 
tingle.  Aches.  I  don't  have  aches!" 

"Ah,  Jennet,  you  were  brought  up  with  the  salt-water 
fish  in  the  Sound,  but  I  come  from  the  back  country 
nigh  to  Hartford.  Besides,  rheumatism  needs  hot  things." 

Grandmother  Lee  straightened  up  in  her  chair,  and  a 
slight  wave  of  disgust  passed  over  her  vigorous  face. 
"Hot  things?  Hot  things!  I've  kept  going  these  sev- 
enty years  on  cold  water  and  cold  baths  and  look  at  me. 
I  can  ride  horse-back  with  anyone  yet,"  and  turning  to 
me  she  said, — "Jennet,  go  tell  Stephen  to  put  the  side- 
saddle on  old  Phillis  and  bring  her  round  to  the  hitching 


27 

post  at  one  o'clock.  I  think  I'll  go  and  see  Mrs.  Covert 
this  afternoon." 

"Sister  Lee!  Sister  Lee !  Why!  Why!  Horse-back 
riding!  Stephen  could  just  as  well  take  you  in  the 
carriage." 

"L,a!  La!  Nobody  is  older  than  he  feels.  I'm  not 
going  to  work  when  I'm  tired  nor  sew  when  the  fight  is 
poor,  but  a  horse-back  riding  I'll  go  so  long  as  my  joints 
keep  limber." 

"But  lots  of  folks  haven't  any  horse-blocks." 

Grandmother  Lee  and  Great-aunt  Peck,  two  old  ladies 
just  passing  the  limit  of  three  score  years  and  ten,  lived 
in  a  wing  my  father  had  added  to  his  house  for  their 
accommodation.  Aunt  Betsy,  as  she  was  called  by  the 
whole  valley,  from  the  little  one  of  the  household  to 
the  doctor  who  came  occasionally  astride  his  horse  with 
pill-bags  behind  him  to  give  a  dose  of  calomel,  was  a 
loving,  helpful,  gentle  woman.  Her  face  was  quiet  in 
the  extreme — perhaps  her  troubles  had  worn  her  expres- 
sion to  the  unvarying  calm  that  admitted  degrees  neither 
of  elation  nor  depression.  Her  step  was  slow  and  soft 
as  suited  the  brooding  spirit  of  the  family,  going  about 
picking  up  forgotten  duties,  dispelling  friction  by  her 
pleasant  smile  and  willing  hands.  She  had  learned  the 
limit  of  suffering  from  a  brutal  husband — perhaps  it  was 
this  that  had  made  her  the  most  patient,  the  most  for- 
giving, the  most  charitable  of  women. 

In  her  spirit  lovingkindness  was  transfigured.  Quick 
to  scent  trouble  and  carry  her  healing  balm  she  was  in-. 
deed  the  ministering  angel  of  the  valley.  Where  others 
committed  scripture  to  memory,  she  put  it  into  practice. 
With  loving  thought  for  others  she  gathered  sweet  and 
bitter  herbs  in  their  season,  dug  the  roots  of  gold  thread 
and  sarsaparilla,  narrow-leaf  dock  and  Indian  turnip. 
She  had  no  equal  for  the  brewing  of  old-fashioned  reme- 


28  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

dies ;  her  skill  as  nurse  was  unrivaled,  and  if  a  neighbor 
was  sick  or  in  trouble  she  would  be  the  first  to  know  and 
carry  her  unstinted  service. 

She  had  been  brought  up  in  the  strictest  way  by  fathers 
who  had  narrowly  escaped  the  papist  snares  and  perse- 
cutions. Her  ancestor  John  Lee  had  written  on  his 
death -bed  in  1710  a  charge  to  his  descendants  to  the  end 
of  the  world,  saying,  "I  charge  that  you  choose  death 
rather  than  deny  Christ  in  any  wise  or  degree,  that  you 
never  turn  papist  nor  heretic,  but  serve  God  in  the  way 
you  were  brought  up,  and  that  you  avoid  all  evil  com- 
panions, lest  you  be  led  into  a  snare  and  temptation." 

Good  old  soul  that  she  was  and  full  of  charity,  she  yet 
thought  reckless  deviltry  housed  within  the  case  of  a 
violin  and  was  let  loose  when  the  fiddler  drew  his  bow 
across  the  catgut.  When  Stephen  came  to  live  with  us  he 
brought  the  fiddle  he  had  made  himself,  and  would  while 
away  winter  evenings  by  the  kitchen  fire  playing  airs  he 
had  heard  at  some  country  dance  or  oftener  new  melo- 
dies that  sprang  from  his  own  heart.  At  first  Aunt 
Betsy  thought  it  hardly  a  proper  thing  to  be  done  in  a 
Deacon's  house,  but  her  gentle  spirit  found  it  much  easier 
to  excuse  than  to  find  fault,  and  she  endured  in  silence. 
It  was  not  long,  quick  as  she  was  to  discover  good  in 
everything,  before  she  saw  in  it  a  desirable  rival  to  the 
attractions  of  the  Lion's  Head;  for  Stephen's  violin 
brought  many  of  the  neighborhood  boys  to  spend  their 
quiet  evenings  in  the  hospitable  kitchen  of  Deacon  Lee. 

Dear  Aunt  Betsy,  so  kind  to  me,  the  only  child  in  the 
family.  When  my  world  was  out  of  tune,  she  knew  just 
how  to  put  good-humor  and  me  on  terms  again.  How  I 
watched  the  time  for  her  to  go  upstairs  and  make  her  bed 
in  the  morning,  for  then  the  cupboard  door  would  open 
and  down  would  come  a  teaspoon  of  candied  honey  from 
the  black-flowered  bowl.  Once  we  found  the  glass  de- 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  29 

canter  that  had  stood  on  her  bureau  empty  since  I  could 
remember,  lying  in  a  thousand  pieces  on  the  floor,  and 
she  told  me  how  in  the  night  she  had  been  suddenly 
awakened  and  had  heard  the  decanter  go  "Ching!" 

"If  only  it  doesn't  mean  bad  news,  Jennet,"  she  said 
as  she  picked  up  the  pieces.  But  sure  enough,  two  weeks 
later  a  letter  from  Connecticut  brought  word  that  her 
only  sister  had  died  that  very  night. 

Aunt  Betsy's  head  was  full  of  quaint  and  picturesque 
notions.  Whatever  anyone  had  cut  or  injured  himself 
with  must,  if  portable,  be  brought  to  the  house,  greased, 
wrapped  in  a  flannel,  and  set  in  a  warm  place;  this  to 
hasten  recovery.  Many  a  rusty  nail  has  she  hunted,  or 
broken  knife,  or  sharp  ax,  that  had  slipped  from  un- 
steady hands,  and  brought  to  her  hospital  behind  the 
kitchen  stove.  Laughter  and  jokes  never  disturbed  her 
equanimity.  She  would  say,  "You  do  all  you  can,  and 
Aunt  Betsy  will  do  all  she  can." 

My  grandmother  was  a  very  different  person.  Had 
her  lot  been  cast  among  Quakers,  her  place  in  the  meet- 
ing-house would  have  been  at  the  head  of  the  top  seat. 
Her  step  was  springy  and  elastic.  She  sat  erect.  There 
was  no  stoop  to  her  shoulders  from  the  seventy-five  or 
even  eighty  years  that  had  brought  her  from  the  preced- 
ing century.  She  worked  faithfully  at  the  duties  of  the 
household,  but  when  she  was  tired  she  stopped  and  some- 
one else  might  finish,  usually  Aunt  Betsy.  She  took  a 
just  pride  in  her  cooking,  and  her  recipes  for  mother  cake 
and  crullers  were  prized  throughout  the  village.  She 
was  always  making  demands  on  the  boys'  time,  but  the 
pieces  of  pie  she  shoved  through  the  pantry  window  as 
they  passed  to  work  would  disarm  the  most  chronic 
grumbler. 

In  middle  life  she  became  deaf  and  had  to  use  a 
trumpet,  but  she  enjoyed  church,  the  sewing-society,  and 


30      .         WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

afternoon  tea-party  with  as  keen  a  zest  as  ever.  There 
was  no  settling  back  in  the  corner  until  people  should 
come  to  speak  to  her.  She  took  the  lead  herself,  never 
suspecting  for  a  moment  that  anyone  might  talk  about 
her  or  say  unpleasant  things  or  make  remarks  she  wasn't 
to  hear.  Knowing  her  intentions  were  right  she  approved 
of  herself,  and  thinking  that  others  understood  her  as 
she  was,  she  had  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of,  but  enjoyed 
life  and  its  good  things  to  the  full,  and  gave  God  thanks. 

Her  eyes,  undimmed  by  age,  were  black  and  snapping ; 
few,  I  venture,  saw  better  what  was  passing  in  Ravenna. 
A  black  front-piece  covered  the  grey  hair  outside  the 
soft  white  frill  of  her  closely  fitting  muslin  cap.  The 
crimp  on  her  ruffles  was  very  fine,  and  the  strings  tied 
under  her  chin  lay  always  in  a  smooth  square  bow. 

She  had  seen  more  of  the  world  than  most  of  her 
neighbors,  for  her  daughter's  husband  was  the  minister 
over  one  of  the  largest  Baptist  churches  in  Philadelphia, 
and  she  had  two  brothers  in  New  York,  who  were  tea- 
merchants  trading  with  China.  She  herself  had  been  born 
and  reared  on  the  shore  of  Long  Island  Sound,  where 
vessels  coming  from  Old  England  brought  a  more  refined 
manner  of  living  than  had  as  yet  drifted  to  central  New 
York. 

When,  as  sometimes  happened,  her  critical  advice  was 
unrelished  in  the  family,  my  mother  would  say : 

"Respect  her  ideas,  my  dears,  they  are  smarter  and 
more  genteel  than  ours.  She  comes  from  Lyme,  Con- 
necticut, you  know." 

Her  vigorous  health  had  been  nourished  by  rather  un- 
usual means.  Born  on  the  sea-shore,  she  was  an  expert 
swimmer,  and  if  by  chance  now  in  her  old  age  she  went 
bathing  in  the  river  with  the  girls,  she  liked  nothing 
better  than  ducking  them  to  hear  them  scream.  If  a 
cold  or  a  fever,  or  a  lame  back  caught  her  unawares,  she 


WHEN   FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  31 

would  call  my  father  to  draw  two  pails  of  water  from  the 
well,  in  winter  as  often  as  in  summer,  and  pour  it  over 
her  while  she  sat  on  the  step  of  the  wood-house  and  gave 
herself  a  vigorous  rub,  finishing  up  before  the  blazing 
fireplace  in  her  own  room.  So  she  kept  lithe  and  lim- 
ber, no  clog  on  her  joints  or  on  her  spirits  either,  for 
she  enjoyed  a  joke  and  gave  one  with  the  zest  of  youth. 
Although  her  sallies  of  wit  were  not  always  pleasant  to 
those  at  whom  they  were  directed,  her  bearing  and  gen- 
eral status  in  the  village,  even  more  than  her  age,  pre- 
vented retorts. 

She  held  fine  clothes  in  esteem,  but  perhaps  not  more 
so  than  superiority  in  any  line,  yet  she  didn't  despise 
anyone  for  plain  dress  if  the  pocketbook  didn't  warrant 
better.  When  the  girls  of  the  house  were  ready  for  a 
party  she  would  come  out  of  her  rooms  with  a  bottle  of 
perfume  to  scent  their  handkerchiefs — an  excuse  to  find 
out  which  one  had  on  the  handsomest  dress. 

Our  family  proper  was  small  in  number,  but  as  invi- 
tations were  free  and  welcomes  cordial,  there  was  always 
a  troupe  of  visitors,  and  cousins  innumerable.  When  we 
had  so-called  charity-company,  like  Old  Square  Bibbins, 
or  Granny  Garnsey,  or  any  other  tiresome  or  common- 
place person.  Grandmother  was  invisible.  But  if  ever 
there  was  a  choice  guest,  some  one  especially  delightful, 
then  she  would  come  with  a  personal  invitation  to  her 
own  table,  sometimes  when  we  were  already  seated,  and 
no  one  had  ever  the  temerity  to  refuse. 

I  can  see  her  now,  after  sixty  years  have  gone,  as  she 
came  through  the  gate  on  Sunday  morning.  After  the 
family  had  been  waiting  some  moments  her  door  would 
open  and  she  would  come  down  the  path  with  the  elastic 
step  of  a  girl,  tall  and  straight  in  her  dress  of  fine  black 
bombazine,  with  its  full  plain  skirt,  and  waist  laid  in  tiny 
plaits  drawn  to  a  sharp  point  in  front.  Her  dainty  mus- 


32  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

lin  collar  and  cuffs,  her  gold  chain — for  years  the  only 
one  in  the  village,  the  gift  of  her  brother  in  New  York,  as 
was  also  the  gold  ring  she  put  on  when  dressing  for  church 
or  company — her  white  straw  bonnet  trimmed  with  lav- 
ender ribbon,  her  black  silk  mitts  and  velvet  bag  em- 
broidered and  fringed  with  steel  beads  in  which  lay  a 
very  white  pocket  handkerchief,  her  gold-bowed  specta- 
cles, and  a  few  lumps  of  sugar  should  she  feel  like 
coughing  during  the  service — everything  about  her  was 
stamped  with  the  elegance  and  refinement  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century  belle  brought  up  in  the  Griswold  home  at 
Giant's  Neck  in  Old  Lyme.  A  black  silk  shawl  was  drawn 
tightly  about  her  shoulders  or,  if  her  grasp  loosened,  fell 
in  shiny  folds  upon  her  arms,  to  be  gathered  up  again 
and  put  in  place.  As  she  came  through  the  door-yard 
she  would  stoop  to  pick  a  sprig  of  bergamot  and  thrust  in 
the  bag  to  give  it  a  sweet  odor,  or  break  off  a  spray  of 
aromatic  caraway  to  eat  as  we  rode  along. 

In  those  days  of  1845  the  most  striking  thing  to  a 
stranger  attending  the  Presbyterian  Church  on  Sunday 
morning  must  have  been  to  see  an  old  lady  taking  her 
seat  in  the  pulpit  just  as  the  sermon  began.  She  sat 
always  at  the  minister's  left,  with  trumpet  to  her  ear. 
Dignified,  silent,  self-possessed,  she  sat  there.  No  one 
smiled,  no  one  turned  to  his  neighbor  with  a  whisper. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  gold  chain  and  silver  trumpet.  At  any 
rate  there  she  sat  while  the  old  preacher  lived ;  when  he 
died  and  a  young  one  came  to  take  his  place,  she  went  to 
her  slip  in  the  body  of  the  meeting-house,  punctual  and 
attentive  always. 

Both  Aunt  Betsy  and  Grandmother  were  deeply  re- 
ligious women,  but  in  different  ways.  Hearing  God's 
word  and  studying  its  meaning  by  meditation  and  prayer 
was  my  grandmother's  method.  For  this  certain  times 
were  set  apart,  when  she  would  retire  to  her  own  room 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  33 

and  on  no  account  was  she  ever  to  be  disturbed.  When 
neighbors  came,  the  grandchild  had  early  learned  to  say, 
"You'll  have  to  wait";  grandmother's  in  the  bed-room 
a-prayerin'." 

The  one  was  aristocratic  by  nature,  the  other  demo- 
cratic; the  one  critical,  the  other  compassionate;  the 
one  handsomely  dressed,  the  other  plain ;  the  one  loved 
a  joke,  the'  other  stood  ready  to  administer  balm  to 
wounded  feelings. 

Aunt  Betsy's  great  object  in  life  was  to  be  a  kindly 
help  to  her  neighbors  and  friends  and  to  promote  the 
welfare  of  the  Baptist  Church.  From  her  small  purse 
flowed  drops  of  comfort  for  every  good  cause  presented 
to  her  notice.  The  bed-quilt  she  had  pieced  during  the 
winter  was  sure  to  go  into  the  next  box  packed  for  the 
missionaries  in  Burmah,  notwithstanding  the  expostula- 
tion of  Grandmother.  Sometimes  one  cow  in  the  dairy 
belonged  to  her,  or  a  half-dozen  sheep  in  the  farmer's 
flock,  then  the  yellowest  pat  of  butter,  and  the  first  pair 
of  striped  blue  and  white  mittens  were  saved  for  the 
minister. 

Aunt  Betsy  was  sitting  as  usual  one  morning  by  the 
old-fashioned  loom  from  which  she  had  brought  many  a 
web  of  linen  for  the  bed  and  square  of  huckaback  for 
towels,  clover-blossom  patterns  for  table-cloths,  blue  and 
white  kersey  for  men's  wear,  bright  plaid  flannel  for  win- 
ter dresses  and  heavy  white  flannel  for  bed-blankets.  It 
was  in  this  way  she  earned  the  few  dollars  that  made  her 
an  independent  woman. 

Suddenly  she  left  the  loom,  went  into  the  pantry,  and 
was  moulding  a  pat  of  butter  into  shape,  pressing  on  it 
the  imprint  of  the  rose-stamp,  when  Grandmother  ex- 
claimed : 

"Betsy,  are  you  laying  out  that  butter  for  the  minis- 
ter? And  you  don't  think  of  giving  away  the  quilt  you 


34  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

have  just  finished?  I  heard  they  were  packing  a  box  in 
the  Baptist  parsonage  to  send  to  India.  How  do  you 
think  you  are  going  to  keep  warm  this  coming  winter? 
They  say  it's  going  to  be  snapping  cold.  Have  you  no- 
ticed the  squirrels  on  that  butt'nut  tree?  Look!  they're 
at  it  now !  I  don't  know  when  I've  seen  them  so  busy. 
Yes,  it's  sure  to  be  a  bad  winter  and  it's  my  opinion  you'll 
need  your  quilts  yourself." 

A  pause  for  breath  and  she  hurried  on : 

"You  gave  away  your  new  blankets  last  year,  and  now 
I  suppose  the  quilt  with  pieces  of  your  dead  daughter's 
two  dresses  goes  to  the  same  place.  Betsy,  you'll  rue 
the  day.  Take  my  advice,  and  keep  that  album  quilt  for 
yourself." 

"The  Lord  will  provide,"  said  Aunt  Betsy  good-hu- 
moredly,  looking  toward  her  sister  Lee,  who  was  two 
years  older  than  herself,  and  of  such  a  spirit  that  defer- 
ence to  her  wishes  seemed  a  law  of  nature.  Aunt  Betsy's 
easy  way  annoyed  Grandmother  exceedingly.  Her  eyes 
took  on  a  darker  shade,  her  head  straightened  back  on  her 
shoulders,  and  the  frill  of  her  closely  fitting  white  cap 
trembled  with  her  intense  interest. 

"There  are  pieces  in  that  quilt  of  Elizabeth's  and  Jen- 
net's dresses — both  dead  and  gone — and  of  that  pretty 
Scotch  gingham  Maria  Williams  used  to  wear  before  they 
lost  their  property  and  moved  to  Pennsylvania.  Then 
there's  a  piece  of  Mother  Boyd's  French  calico  that  came 
from  Albany  in  war-time  and  cost  a  dollar  a  yard ;  and 
Mrs.  Covert's  camelet  cloak,  and  little  Johnnie  Bacon's 
dress  he  wore  the  day  he  was  scalded  so  bad,  and 
George's  wife  Eliza  wrote  all  those  names  on  the  blocks. 
Why  Betsy!  your  feelings  can't  let  you  give  that  quilt 
to  the  heathen !" 

Aunt  Betsy's  mild  blue  eyes  kept  closely  to  the  apple 
she  was  paring  for  dinner.  She  made  no  answer ;  indeed, 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  35 

she  couldn't  make  her  Sister  Lee  hear  unless  she  left 
her  work  and  screamed  in  her  ear.  So  Grandmother 
went  on  unchecked. 

"Everybody  knows  you  are  so  generous  you  would  take 
the  food  from  your  mouth  and  the  dress  from  your  back 
to  give  any  one  who  wanted  it.  I  should  say  if  that  man 
had  any  spirit,  and  I  don't  care  if  he  is  a  minister — he 
would  just  refuse  to  take  the  last  pound  of  butter  from 
a  poor  widow  or  let  his  wife  take  it  either." 

At  this  Aunt  Betsy  bestirred  herself,  laid  aside  the 
dish  of  peelings,  and  lowered  her  mouth  to  the  deaf 
woman's  ear: 

"Touch  not  mine  anointed  and  do  my  prophets  no 
harm,"  she  cried,  and  then  began  setting  the  table  for 
two. 

Later  the  pat  of  butter  was  put  in  a  small  basket  be- 
side a  pie-shaped  piece  of  cheese  to  be  carried  to  Becky 
Locke,  with  whom  she  would  stay  after  Covenant  meet- 
ing until  the  next  day,  which  was  communion  Sabbath. 

"Betsy,  have  you  brought  in  those  caps  I  washed  this 
morning?" 

"Yes,  and  damped  them,  and  the  flat-irons  are  about 
heated." 

"Well,  you  iron  and  I'll  sit  down  to  crimp  the  ruffles  ; 
they'll  be  enough  to  last  three  weeks  at  least,"  and 
Grandmother,  picking  out  the  green-handled  thin  steel 
knife,  was  soon  gathering  the  soft  folds  of  muslin  in  fine 
plaits  tightly  held  under  thumb  and  first  finger. 

"Betty,  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  that  pat  of  but- 
ter on  the  pantry  shelf?" 

"It's  Covenant  meeting  today  and  I  can't  afford  to  miss 
that — the  butter  is  for  Becky  Locke." 

"What,  walk  to  the  Lower  Village  after  all  the  work 
you've  <1one  today!" 

"Oh  yes,  it  will  rest  me,  and  I'm  going  to  stay  over 


36  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

night  with  Becky;  her  mother  is  poorly  and  I'm  afraid 
she'll  not  last  long." 

"Well,  I  think  you're  foolish ;  you  might  wait  till  Sun- 
day morning  and  ride  as  far  as  the  Brick  Store,  then  it 
wouldn't  be  such  a  walk,  but  if  you're  bound  to  go,  get 
a  drawing  of  that  best  old  Hyson  tea  for  dinner.  It's 
a'most  gone,  but  we'll  have  one  good  cup  anyway,  for 
you've  a  long  way  before  you. 

"I  don't  know  when  John  and  Lyndes  will  send  another 
box.  I  always  think  it's  the  last  chest  we'll  get.  Young 
men  don't  often  remember  such  old  women  as  we  are. 
But  they  think  of  the  time  they  spent  in  Butt'nuts — I 
guess  they  don't  forget  Aunt  Betsy  binding  up  their  sore 
fingers  with  green  salve,  mending  torn  clothes,  and  sooth- 
ing Uncle  Jason's  wrath  when  they  were  found  out  in 
some  of  their  pranks.  Yes,  and  I  guess  they  don't  forget 
either  the  cups  of  boneset  tea  for  headache,  or  Aunt 
Lee's  Indian  bread  and  baked  beans  just  out  of  the 
oven,  when  they  got  home  from  the  Academy,  or  their, 
sliding  down  hill  and  snow-balling. 

"Brother  George's  idea  was  about  right  that  farm 
chores  along  with  school  is  good  training  for  city  boys. 
Yes,  John  and  Lyndes  are  smart  business  men,  as  their 
father  was  before  them,  and  I  guess  the  four  years  they 
spent  with  us  weren't  lost  on  them,  either." 

"Betsy,  do  you  remember  the  wild  cat  they  killed  out 
in  the  woods,  and  how  smart  they  felt,  and  the  sign  John 
put  on  the  barn,  so  everybody  driving  by  would  know 
what  a  big  thing  they  had  done?  and  how  proud  he  was 
to  write  to  New  York  about  it?  I  guess  that  was  about 
the  last  wild  cat  in  Otsego  County.  Dear  me!  that  was 
as  much  as  thirty  years  ago.  Why,  Betty,  those  boys 
are  between  forty  and  fifty!  Well,  they  have  remem- 
bered us  a  long  time,  bless  them!  they'll  alwavs  be  boys 
to  me." 


CHAPTER  IV. 
GRANDMOTHER'S  PARLOR. 

GRANDMOTHER  loved  distinction  not  only  in  things  but 
in  persons.  It  was  one  of  her  aims  to  cultivate  acquain- 
tance with  those  better  conditioned  than  herself,  better 
educated,  more  experienced  and  of  wiser  mind.  She  her- 
self had  an  exclusive  air,  as  had  also  her  parlor.  Not  that 
its  individual  pieces  were  different  from  those  of  her 
day,  but  the  room  as  a  whole  had  a  decided  personality. 
It  was  a  company  room,  and  like  Sunday  clothes,  existed 
only  for  set  times  and  occasions. 

Its  windows  were  darkened  by  oil-cloth  shades  covered 
with  wonderful  pictures  of  impossible  landscapes  that 
never  were,  tall  birds  and  little  houses  they  might  have 
carried  under  their  wings,,  and  people  it  would  have  done 
Darwin's  heart  good  to  see,  so  strong  was  the  mark  of 
their  rise  from  the  monkey.  A  dish-cupboard  built  in 
the  wall  held  the  best  china  tea-set  brought  from  Old 
Lyme,  where  all  the  things  happened  in  the  stories  she 
told.  Here  was  the  glass  decanter  with  its  china  label 
saying  "port  wine,"  though  since  my  memory  the  wine 
it  had  held  was  Grandmother's  own,  made  from  currants 
I  had  helped  gather  myself — in  proof  of  which  was  the 
straggling  line  of  bushes  behind  fhe  bee-hives.  Beside 
the  decanter  was  an  old  mug,  gold-lacquered  on  the  out- 
side, though  most  of  it  had  worn  off,  which  had  been 
given  to  Great  -  grandfather  Lee  by  a  member  of  his 
church  in  Connecticut.  And  there  were  the  silver  spoons 
marked  M.  G.,  a  part  of  her  wedding  outfit  in  1795,  the 
willow-ware  plates,  and  Chinese  pot  of  preserved  ginger. 
The  choice  tea  brought  from  China  stood  in  a  canister 
beside  a  britannia  tea-pot  ready  for  a  brew  if  Mother 


38  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

Boyd  and  Julia  happened  in,  or  any  other  friend  who 
knew  a  good  cup  of  tea. 

Pushed  against  the  wall  between  the  two  windows  was 
a  curley  maple  table  with  clover  leaves,  one  of  which  was 
always  down.  Its  slender  legs  with  feet  encased  in  brass 
castors  were  certainly  genteel  enough  to  have  come  from 
New  York  on  a  visit.  The  spread  was  a  black  merino 
shawl  with  a  gay  border.  On  the  table  was  a  memoir 
of  Ann  Haselton  Judson,  a  copy  of  Young's  "  Night 
Thoughts,"  a  New  Testament,  the  Book  of  Psalms  in 
large  print,  and  a  History  of  the  Baptists,  in  which  was 
due  record  of  the  Rev.  Jason  Lee,  born  in  the  same  year 
with  Washington,  and  the  second  pastor  of  the  church 
in  Lyme. 

The  chairs  of  dark  wood  were  made  bright  with  gilt 
trimmings,  like  the  settee,  whose  hard  bottom  was  re- 
lieved by  a  feather  cushion  covered  with  leather  and 
topped  by  green  baize.  It  was  a  slippery  seat,  and  I  liked 
it  because  I  could  keep  falling  to  the  floor  and  nobody 
could  scold. 

A  bureau  with  many  drawers  stood  in  one  corner,  and 
to  be  allowed  to  lay  over  the  middle  one  was  a  privilege 
rarely  granted  and  therefore  highly  prized.  In  this  were 
Grandmother's  ornaments — her  gold  chain  lying  in  soft 
cotton  in  a  box  of  many  colored  straws  made  by  the  In- 
dians, her  gold  ring  with  its  initials  G.  G.  to  J.  Lee,  her 
gold-bowed  spectacles  and  silver  ear  trumpet,  used  only 
when  she  went  visiting  or  to  church.  But  the  treasure 
was  the  wedding  slippers,  originally  of  white  corded  silk 
but  now  yellow  with  age.  They  were  decorated  with 
spangles  long  since  dimmed,  a  running  vine  of  silk  em- 
broidery, and  a  ribbon-rosette  on  the  sharply  pointed  toe. 
The  high  French  heels  were  about  as  big  around  as  your 
little  finger,  so  that  when  I  tried  them  on  I  fell  over  at 
once.  But  she  would  slip  her  feet  in  them,  telling  of 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  39 

the  Connecticut  parties  they  had  been  to,  and  step  around 
like  a  gleeful  girl. 

Brass  andirons  stood  in  the  fireplace  shining  with  a 
golden  lustre  from  frequent  scourings,  and  vied  in  bright- 
ness with  the  brass  candlesticks  on  either  end  of  the 
mantelpiece,  sentries  to  guard  the  kneeling  Samuel,  a 
white  plaster  figure  bought  of  a  peddler  in  one  of  his 
wandering  tours  through  the  country.  '  Close  by  stood 
the  ubiquitous  snuffers  and  tray,  also  of  brass.  The 
embers  and  partially  burned  stick  covered  with  ashes  dur- 
ing the  night  were  opened  up  in  the  morning  and  became 
the  foundation  of  the  next  day's  fire.  To  hasten  the 
flame  a  tiny  pair  of  bellows  was  used  to  blow  the  half- 
dead  coals  to  life.  This  hung  at  one  side  of  the  fireplace, 
a  constant  temptation  to  children  whose  joy  it  was  to  blow 
the  ashes.  Many  a  stern  lesson  in  self-control  has 
Grandmother  taught  with  the  aid  of  the  bellows  beside 
that  fireplace. 

An  odd  piece  of  furniture  occupied  another  corner,  its 
shiny  surface  throwing  into  relief  the  feathery  grain  of 
its  choice  wood.  This  was  the  locker  full  of  drawers 
and  cupboards,  with  carved  posts  and  curved  lines.  This, 
too,  had  come  from  the  old  house  at  Giant's  Neck,  and 
had  its  place  in  many  a  thrilling  Revolutionary  tale  of 
red-coats  and  lost  silver. 

There  were  a  few  pictures  on  the  wall;  some  sil- 
houettes of  Grandmother  in  high  frizzed  coiffure,  a 
broad  crimped  ruff  about  her  neck,  with  her  head  in  that 
indescribable  poise  so  characteristic  of  her  prevailing 
temper ;  and  of  her  husband  in  ruffled  shirt  bosom  and 
attitude  befitting  the  staid  deacon.  There  was  also  a 
profile  drawing  of  her  son  Woodbridge,  done  in  pencil 
by  a  college  class-mate. 

Over  the  mantel  hung  "The  Tired  Soldier,"  in  bright 
colors — a  little  boy  armed  with  a  wooden  sword,  a  feather 


40  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

in  his  cap,  lying  fast  asleep  while  a  big  dog  kept  watch. 
Then  there  was  the  certificate  of  membership  in  a  mis- 
sionary society.  Near  the  top  huddled  a  crowd  of  little 
savages,  a  white  man  in  the  center — supposed  to  be 
Adoniram  Judson — reading  them  a  book,  and  below  an 
inscription  recording  the  gift  which  had  made  her  a  mem- 
ber and  explaining  to  what  it  entitled  her. 

On  the  broad  unbroken  inside  wall  hung  a  picture 
called  "The  Tree  of  Life."  The  tree  itself  was  the  most 
prominent  thing  in  the  picture,  with  its  little  fruits 
labeled  love,  charity,  forgiveness,  peace,  and  the  like. 
In  the  distance  were  the  towers  and  walls  of  the  "Celes- 
tial City,"  with  few  indeed  traveling  toward  it.  The  bot- 
tom of  the  picture  was  separated  from  it  by  a  high  wall 
below  which  was  a  great  highway  leading  to  the  far 
corner,  where  clouds  of  smoke  shot  through  by  sulphu- 
rous flames  were  bursting  up  from  a  black  lake  in  the 
midst  of  which  queer  little  devils  swam  about  lashing 
their  tails.  Here  were  the  gay  women  in  hooped  petti- 
coats with  feathers  in  their  hair,  men  frolicking,  misera- 
ble or  decrepid,  each  with  an  apple  marked  pleasure,  dis- 
cord, envy,  deceit,  or  greed,  while  busy  little  humpbacked 
imps,  with  extra  long  tongues,  ears,  and  noses,  hung 
about  whispering  mischief.  On  they  hastened,  appar- 
ently unconscious  of  the  lake  toward  which  their  feet 
were  leading  them,  while  spirits  hidden  in  flame  and 
smoke  waited  net  in  hand  to  catch  their  souls. 

A  company  day  had  come  and  gone.  Grandmother  sat 
in  her  rocking  chair  before  the  open  fire ;  back  log,  front 
log,  and  top  stick  had  dropped  to  a  mass  of  glowing  em- 
bers whose  light  brought  the  wayfarer  of  this  world  and 
the  lurid  flames  of  hell  into  a  sombre  foreground.  Jen- 
net crept  into  her  lap,  and  snuggled  down  to  the  warm 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  41 

arms  that  were  always  ready  to  receive  her.  Each  sat 
silent,  gazing  at  pictures  fancy  saw  in  the  dying  coals. 

Then  Jennet  said,  "And  now,  Grandmother " 

"Now  what?"  asked  Grandmother,  pretending  she 
didn't  know.  » 

"The  war  song  where  you  tear  away  your  clothes." 

"No,  'not  that,  tonight,  my  little  lamb." 

"Then  a  story,"  and  as  she  glanced  at  the  mantel.  "Tell 
about  Samuel." 

"I  think  you  could  tell  about  that  yourself." 

"Yes,  but  I  want  to  hear  you." 

Then  Grandmother  began — how  Hannah  took  the  little 
Samuel  to  Eli  the  High  Priest  to  wait  on  him,  and  min- 
ister before  the  Lord;  how  Eli  put  on  him  a  white  girdle 
of  fine  linen  when  he  handled  the  gold  and  silver  pieces 
of  the  tabernacle  service  in  the  time  of  religious  festival ; 
how  Hannah  made  a  little  coat  and  brought  to  him  from 
year  to  year  when  she  came  to  offer  the  annual  sacrifice, 
and  how  Samuel  grew  in  favor  with  God  and  man. 

And  one  night  when  Samuel  was  laid  down  to  sleep 
the  Lord  called,  "Samuel?  Samuel?"  and  he  answered, 
"Here  am  I."  But  when  he  saw  no  one  he  ran  to  Eli 
and  said,  "Here  am  I,  for  thou  calledst  me."  And  Eli 
said,  "I  called  not;  lie  down  again,"  and  he  went  and 
lay  down,  and  the  Lord  called  again,  "Samuel?  Samuel?" 
and  he  rose  and  went  to  Eli  again  and  said,  "Here  am  I, 
for  thou  didst  call  me." 

Here  Grandmother  paused,  the  coals  on  the  hearth- 
stone were  growing  dim,  the  shadows  bobbing  up  and 
down  among  those  strange  scenes  on  the  oil  cloth  shades, 
and  her  deep  solemn  voice  calling  "Samuel?  Samuel?" 
filled  Jennet  with  awe.  She  looked  behind  at  the  dark 
corners,  the  floor  gave  a  crack,  she  felt  a  wierd  some- 
thing in  the  air.  The  little  white  Samuel  knelt  there 
on  the  mantelpiece — a  shiver  caught  her,  and  while  the 


42  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

story  went  on  to  the  end  in  the  disaster  of  Eli  and  his 

sons,  she  drew  Grandmother's  dress  closer  and  closer 

about  her,  saying  at  last: 

"Grandmother,  you  sleep  with  me  tonight." 

"I  can't  leave  my  bed,  my  dear,  I  shouldn't  rest." 

"Oh,  but  you  did.    You  stayed  almost  a  week  with  Mrs. 

Jsaiah  Lord." 

"What's  the  matter?    You're  not  afraid,  are  you?" 

"But  I  don't  want  to  be  alone  in  the  dark." 

"God  is  all  through  the  dark.     He  takes  care  of  little 

girls." 

"Oh,  but  that's  just  it.     He  isn't,  Grandmother." 
"What  do  you  mean,  Jennet?    God  is  everywhere." 
Then  Jennet  whispered  her  secret  in  Grandmother's 

ear. 

"He  was  not  there!    When  I  was  all  alone  in  bed  I 

felt  everywhere  between  the  sheets  and  He  was  not  there ! 

and  besides.  Grandmother,  I  want  somebody  that's  warm" 

— after  which  Grandmother  took  her  to  bed  and  read  her 

to  sleep. 


CHAPTER  V. 
OLD  SQUARE  BIBBINS. 

"I  DECLARE,  Achsah!  if  there  isn't  old  Square  Bibbins 
coming  through  the  gate  again  for  an  all  day's  visit,"  ex- 
claimed Adeline  none  too  amiably,  looking  up  from  the 
cheese-cloth  she  was  washing  out  ready  for  the  morn- 
ing dairy.  "It's  only  a  week  ago  yesterday  he  was  here 
for  dinner.  But  probably  he  brings  a  bag  of  news,  and 
that's  something." 

Just  across  the  river  were  a  few  houses  huddled  to- 
gether on  four  corners  going  by  the  name  of  Bangall. 
There  was  the  tavern  for  dispensing  rum  and  lodging 
strangers  whom  night  overtook,  and  a  blacksmith  shop 
under  a  precipitous  cliff  stood  ready  to  repair  wagons 
and  horses  after  a  rough  journey  on  the  stony  roads  that 
led  down  from  the  hill  farms.  During  the  summer  a 
foot-bridge  was  thrown  across  the  stream  for  the  con- 
venience of  neighbors  on  either  side.  Often  it  was  only 
a  tree  felled  on  one  bank  tall  enough  to  reach  well  over, 
or  sometimes  two,  the  second  serving  as  hand-rail  to  help 
the  unsteady  passenger. 

Just  beyond  this  bridge  dwelt  "Square  Bibbins,"  an 
old  man  of  medium  height,  rather  portly,  with  sharp 
blue  eyes,  stubby  grey  hair  that  showed  no  sign  of  fall- 
ing away,  ruddy  cheeks,  and  an  irritable  temper.  He 
lived  in  his  son's  family,  and  though  sons'  wives  are 
sometimes  more  thoughtful  than  own  children,  in  this 
case  the  poor  old  man's  room  was  better  than  his  com- 
pany. No  doubt  he  knew  it,  for  he  often  strolled  across 
the  foot-bridge  and  down  to  the  Deacon's,  where  he  was 
sure  of  pleasant  words,  a  kindly  spirit,  and  a  good 
dinner. 


44  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

The  young  folks  got  tired  of  seeing  the  brown  woolly 
clothes  colored  with  butternut  shucks  and  woven  at  the 
mill  three  miles  north  shuffle  in  with  such  regularity  on 
the  big  square-toed  boots  and  stout  cane,  but  the  mis- 
tress of  the  house  would  say: 

"Poor  old  gentleman!  He  has  little  enough  to  make 
him  happy.  If  he  likes  coming,  don't  turn  him  away 
with  cold  looks." 

On  this  particular  morning  he  came  to  the  back  stoop, 
where  the  dairy  was  in  full  progress.  My  mother  met 
him  with  a  smile,  saying: 

"How  are  you,  Square,  and  how  are  the  folks  across 
the  river?"  With  a  few  more  commonplaces  she  handed 
him  a  chair,  and  laying  the  weekly  newspaper  beside  him 
added,  "You'll  stay  to  dinner,  won't  you?" 

To  which  he  readily  acquiesced,  that  in  fact  being  the 
very  thing  he  had  come  for. 

"I'm  busy  now  and  can't  stop  to  visit,  but  at  dinner 
Mathew'll  be  here,"  and  immediately  the  old  man  settled 
down  to  a  comfortable  forenoon. 

The  making  of  the  cheese  now  proceeded.  A  big  tub 
twice  the  size  of  an  ordinary  one,  painted  red  on  the 
outside  and  white  within,  held  the  milk  of  the  evening 
and  morning  from  sixteen  cows.  It  was  now  a  sweet 
curcl.  Separating  the  whey  and  putting  in  the  press  fol- 
lowed. At  the  last  turn  of  the  screw  Jennet  cried  from 
the  hall  door: 

"Quick!  there's  a  million  cows  down  the  road!" 

"What's  that?" 

"Oh,  quick!"  and  her  mother,  Adeline,  and  Square 
Bibbins  all  followed  to  the  front  door. 

Sure  enough,  cows,  oxen,  heifers,  steers,  and  calves 
were  hooking,  jostling,  bucking,  and  lashing  their  tails, 
as  far  as  one  could  see. 

"Do  you  think  it's  the  resurrection?"  asked  Jennet. 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  45 

"No,  only  a  drove  of  cattle  going  to  market." 

"Well,  did  you  ever!  Achsah,  do  you  see  that  brown 
basket  down  there  in  the  elm?  How  ever  did  she  get 
up  there?" 

"What  do  you  mean?    I  don't  see  anything." 

"There's  only  one  such  basket  in  Ravenna.  Can't  you 
make  it  out  yet?  It's  Granny  Garnsey  on  the  rail  fence 
hanging  to  "the  tree  for  dear  life.  Well !  I  didn't  know 
she  had  spring  enough  for  that !  When  the  cattle  get 
by  and  she  can  climb  down,  we'll  have  more  company." 

They  all  returned  to  the  back  stoop,  and  presently  Jen- 
net, who  stood  guard  when  there  was  nothing  else  to  do, 
came  flying  out  to  announce  the  new  arrival,  who  almost 
immediately  appeared  herself  around  the  corner. 

"Good  morning,  Mrs.  Garnsey.  How  are  they  all 
down  street?" 

"Pretty  well,  with  the  exception  of  Ann  Maria  Collins. 
Her  boy  Jotham's  going  out  west  and  she's  all  broke  up 
over  it,  says  she'll  never  see  him  again.  He  says  he's 
goin'  to  leave  these  tarnel  meddlesome  folks  an'  go  west 
an'  grow  up  'ith  the  country ;  but  his  mother  aint  willin'." 

"I  suppose  he's  been  reading  Horace  Greeley.  I  think 
maybe  it  is  a  good  place  for  young  men." 

"That's  jes'  what  I  made  out  to  Mis'  Collins,  but  she 
can't  see  it." 

"No  wonder — lying  on  that  bed  for  five  years." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  told  Mis'  Collins  Jotham  ought  to  stay 
with  her,  an'  if  he's  a  good  boy  he  will,  too.  I  allus  say, 
boys  should  be  good  to  their  mothers.  Somebody  started 
the  story  that  Jotham  stole  that  wheat  from  La'yer 
Miles's  farm,  an'  he  can't  get  over  the  disgrace.  Says 
if  they  was  only  somebody  he  could  lick  an'  make  'em 
swaller  their  yarn,  he'd  stay." 

"That  would  be  a  poor  way  to  clear  it  up." 

"Them's  my  sentiments,  too.     I  told  Mis'  Collins  so, 


46 

an'  I  meant  it.  I  allus  did  think  Jotham  a  nice  boy  an' 
he'll  be  a  great  man  out  west,  an'  I  told  his  mother  so, 
but  she  won't  be  reconciled  no  way." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Garnsey,  why  don't  you  go  out  west?" 
asked  Adeline.  "It's  such  a  fine  country." 

"Law,  Addie,  I  couldn't  do  that.  I've  allus  lived  in 
Ravenna." 

"But  it's  a  great  place  for  women ;  there  are  so  many 
men,  there  aren't  half  enough  women  to  go  around. 
You'd  be  spoke  for  before  you'd  been  there  three 
months." 

"Law,  Addie,  how  foolish  you  are !" 

"No,  in  earnest,  Mrs.  Garnsey.  Any  man  might  be 
glad  to  get  you." 

"Law,  Addie,  I'm  maybe  not  so  young  as  you  think." 

"A  woman  that  can  knit  a  pair  of  woollen  socks  in  two 
days  is  a  prize." 

"Law,  Addie,  I  can't  do  that  day  in  and  day  out,  but 
only  now  and  then.  I  knit  pretty  fast, — yes,  just  as 
fast  as  any  other  woman,  and  as  smooth.  But  what  do 
I  want  of  a  husband  ?" 

"Oh — to  pile  wood,  to  be  sure,  and  lock  the  door 
nights." 

"I  jes'  can't  help  it,  but  I  think  I'll  live  an'  die  in 
Ravenna.  I  told  Mis'  Collins  Ravenna  was  good  enough 
for  her  an'  me,  but  let  the  boy  go." 

As  time  passed  on  and  the  Square  let  out  no  hint  of 
his  news,  it  was  suspected  to  be  of  more  than  usual  in- 
terest. The  suspicion  finally  reached  Grandmother's 
ears,  we  were  honored  with  her  company  at  dinner. 
When  all  were  seated,  and  the  blessing  had  been  asked, 
he  broke  the  silence  usual  to  the  time  of  carving  with 
several  ahems — a  sign  that  he  was  ready  to  begin. 

"Deacon,  have  you  heard  the  news?" 

"What?" 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  47 

"About  Leroy  Nixon?" 

"No,  what's  happened?," 

"You  know  yes'day  was  a  dull  day?" 

"So  it  was,"  said  Grandmother  quickly,  chafing  under 
prospect  of  one  of  the  Square's  long  stories. 

"Looked  kind  o'  like  rain,  didn't  it  Mis'  Lee?"  Grand- 
mother nodded  and  he  went  on.  "The  boys  couldn't 
work  in  the  hay-field,  so  Leroy  an'  that  dwarf  Biggs 
took  their  guns  an'  went  to  the  river  to  see  what  they 
could  shoot.  But  they  had  no  business  to  be  wastin' 
their  time  jes'  killin'  no-count  animals,  says  I.  When  I 
was  a  boy  they  was  allus  suthin'  to  do  on  the  farm,  rainy 
days  an'  all.  We  had  to  ile  up  harness,  an'  wash  the 
buggy,  an'  slick  up  the  barn,  an'  chop  fire-wood,  an' 
pile  stun,  an'  mend  the  rake,  an'  grind  the  scythes,  an' 
make  spiles  for  the  sugar  bush,  or  do  suthin'  useful." 

"Hold  on!"  cried  Grandmother,  "or  the  rainy  day'll 
be  over  and  we  won't  know  what  happened." 

"If  those  shif'less  boys  had  been  doin'  that,  the  father 
o'  one  o'  'm  wouldn't  be  buyin'  a  coffin  today,  an'  tother 
in  La'yer  Miles's  seein'  how  he  could  get  'im  off  from 
goin'  to  prison." 

"But  Square  Bibbins,  you  haven't  told.  What  hap- 
pened ?  Hurry  up !"  came  from  all  sides. 

"Well, — at  the  foot-bridge, — right  there  where  I 
crossed  this  mornin' — By  jinks,  Deacon !  Don't  seem 
possible,"  and  the  Square  mopped  his  forehead  with  his 
red  bandanna,  "but  there  was  the  spots  o'  blood — Yes, 
yes,  women  folks  is  cur'ous — well — Biggs,  he  was  jes' 
gettin'  through  the  fence  an'  his  gun  went  off  right  into 
Leroy's  side.  Mebbe't  did  an'  mebbe't  didn't,  I  don't 
know.  Don't  nobody  know  't  I  can  see.  'Taint  as  'twas 
in  my  day — what  'ith  their  canals,  an'  their  railroads 
an'  their  new-fangled  notions  aint  nobody  hardly  good's 
their  word.  Used  to  be  folks  was  jes'  folks,  now — 


48  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

highty-tighty !"  and  the  Square's  fork,  well  baited  with 
corn  beef,  flourished  his  misanthropy  in  the  very  noses 
of  his  hearers  —  "Besides,  the  Biggses  are  a  harum- 
scarum  set  anyway." 

Everybody  had  stopped  eating,  but  no  one  offered  to 
interrupt  the  old  man  again. 

"Leroy,  he  screamed,  an'  they  both  screamed,  but 
Biggs  he  had  to  stop  an'  go  an'  tell  the  Colonel.  I  allus 
knew  that  dwarf  Biggs  'ud  come  to  it  an'  ye  jes'  give 
him  enough  rope!" 

"If  you  don't  hurry  up  and  say  what  happened,"  cried 
Grandmother,  "we'll  think  you  know  more  than  you're 
willing  to  tell." 

"Oh,  no,  no,  no.  Well,  they  got  Leroy  home  some- 
way, an'  the  doctor  said  right  off  he  couldn't  live,  an' 
so  he  died — this  mornin',  five  o'clock — I  got  the  news 
on  my  way  up." 

"Poor  young  life — to  be  snuffed  out  like  a  candle!" 
sighed  my  mother;  "and  I'm  sorry  for  the  Biggs  boy,  too, 
I'm  sure  it  was  an  accident." 

"Mebbe  so,  mebbe  not.  He'd  ought  t'  have  been  home 
helpin'  his  father." 

"And  how  dreadful  for  Mrs.  Nixon !  he  was  her  eldest 
boy." 

"Yes,  but  she's  got  four  left,  an'  they're  enough  to 
fill  two  houses,"  growled  the  old  man.  "In  fact  by  the 
noise — you  know  I'm  jes'  next  door — I  sh'd  say  two's 
more'n  enough." 

"You're  hard  on  the  boys.  They've  got  to  make  fun 
and  a  big  to-do  or  they  wouldn't  be  boys." 

"Easy  to  see  you  never  had  any  o'  your  own ;  you  don't 
know  what  a  rumpus  it  is  day  in  an'  day  out." 

"Ay,  that's  a  sore  spot  in  our  lives,"  said  the  Deacon; 
''ours  both  died." 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  49 

"Well,  you  can  be  glad  you  aint  got  'em  carousin' 
round  pesterin'  your  days  an'  worryin'  your  nights." 

"Poor  Mrs.  Nixon!"  continued  my  mother,  "I'm  sorry 
for  her,  she  can't  help  feeling  it  was  so  unnecessary. 
If  he  had  only  been  in  the  field  working,  it  wouldn't  have 
happened." 

"That's  what  I  say,"  added  the  Square,  "if  she'd  kept 
'em  to  work. — an'  boys  need  work,  it's  the  business  of 
parents  to  set  'em  at  it — an'  keep  'em  at  it." 

"I  wonder,  Square  Bibbins,"  asked  my  mother,  "did 
you  ever  hear  the  story  of  two  little  boys  whose  grand- 
father died — their  mother  was  talking  to  them  about 
heaven — what  a  beautiful  place  it  was,  golden  streets, 
and  angels  with  white  wings  and  long  trumpets  in  their 
hands  ?  'And  children,  Grandpa  is  there.' " 

"  'I'd  like  the  white  wings,'  broke  in  one  boy,  'I'd  fly 
up  to  the  moon.' 

"  'I'd  like  the  trumpet,'  cried  the  other,  'and  make  a 
big  noise,  so's  they'd  all  look  round  and  say,  "What's 
that?'" 

"  'Well,  you  must  be  good  boys,'  said  the  mother,  'and 
then  you'll  go  where  Grandpa  is.' 

"  'I  guess  we  don't  want  to  go  there,'  said  the  eldest 
boy  slowly. 

"  'Why  ?'  asked  the  astonished  mother,  'why  don't  you 
want  to  go  to  that  beautiful  place?' 

"  'Grandpa'll  be  there,  and  as  soon  as  he  sees  us  he'll 
say,  'Whew  !  Whew !  boys,  what  you  here  for  ?'  " 

Passing  the  story  by  without  remark,  Square  Bibbins 
turne  1  to  my  father. 

"Deacon,  have  you  ever  heard  the  facts  about  Father 
Steele  anr!  the  Bishop — over  at  Bangall?" 

Father  Steele  was  a  Methodist  living  across  the  river 
pnl  known  throughout  the  valley  for  his  loud  prayers, 
his  fervent  interjections,  and  the  power  that  laid  him 


50  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

prostrate  in  the  aisle  during  revival  seasons.  He  had 
purchased  a  farm  that  reached  almost  to  the  Bangall 
tavern,  noted  for  its  noisy  quarrels.  He  had  built  a  big 
white  house,  where  with  his  six  sons  he  began  an  influence 
for  industry  and  sobriety  and  even  for  quiet  except 
where  their  devotions  were  concerned.  Indeed,  his  son 
Abner  praying  on  one  hilltop  could  be  heard  across  the 
river  on  still  nights. 

They  with  others  of  like  turn  of  mind  used  to  meet 
and  hold  service  in  the  school-house,  and  when  this  grew 
too  small,  it  was  Father  Steele  who  said,  "We'll  have  a 
meeting-house  of  our  own."  He  gave  the  land  himself 
and  most  of  the  money,  and  at  last  the  building  was  up 
and  ready  to  be  dedicated. 

"I  have  heard  nothing  in  particular,"  said  my  father  in 
answer  to  the  Square's  question,  "only  most  of  the  men 
have  left  sitting  in  the  tavern  chairs." 

"Well,  Father  Steele  was  about  finishing  his 
church " 

"Why  do  you  call  it  Father  Steele's  church  ?  It's  to  be 
a  Methodist  church,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  he's  a  Methodist,  but  he  gives  the  land  and  most 
of  the  money,  why  shouldn't  it  be  his  church  ?" 

"A  church  is  God's  house  and  is  cared  for  by  a  board 
of  trustees ;  it — 

"Ho !  Ho !  that's  your  church ;  it's  not  the  Methodists, 
no  sirree!  And  there  was  a  row  last  night  in  Bangall 
an'  it  wan't  in  the  tavern  either.  It  was  the  Bishop  and 
Father  Steele." 

"What?    The  Bishop  and  Father  Steele  quarreling?" 

"Yes,  they  were,  Deacon!  and  this  is  the  how  of  it. 
Last  night  was  the  time  appointed  for  dedicating  the 
building.  It  wan't  quite  done,  but  as  everything  had 
been  paid  for  they  wanted  to  begin  gettin'  the  use  of  it ; 
so  the  Bishop  was  called. 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  51 

"He  came  about  five  o'clock,  had  supper  with  Father 
Steele,  and  went  into  the  class-room  to  finish  up  some 
kind  of  legal  rigamarole  jes'  before  the  hour  set  for 
openin'  the  meetin'. 

"The  choir  was  through  their  last  practice,  an'  was 
sittin'  quiet  in  the  gallery.  The  fire  in  the  stoves  had 
been  burnin'  two  hours,  an'  when  half-past  seven  came 
the  candles  were  lighted  in  the  new  tin  candlesticks 
hangin'  from  nails  in  the  wall.  The  teams  that  came  in 
from  the  farms  had  made  a  reg'lar  circle  round  three 
sides  o'  the  house,  and  the  slips  were  pretty  nigh  filled. 

"Every thin'  bein'  so  new  an'  nice  there  was  a  kind  o' 
awe  on  everybody,  an'  they  didn't  even  whisper. 

"They  was  jes'  w'aitin'  to  see  the  Bishop  come  in. 
Hadn't  anybody  in  Bangall  ever  seen  a  Bishop,  an' 
none  o'  'em  knew  what  he'd  be  like.  Some  said  he'd  be 
dressed  up  like  a  woman  in  her  night-gown.  I  take  it 
most  folks'  came  to  see  that.  Half  an  hour  after  time 
for  openin'  an'  folks  got  kind  o'  restless  in  their 
seats.  One  man  kept  pilin'  wood  into  the  stove  'cause  he 
hadn't  nothin'  else  to  do.  It  got  hot  an'  women  threw 
off  their  shawls  an'  the  babies  went  to  sleep  an'  the  men 
yawned. 

"Half  past  eight  an'  no  one  in  the  pulpit.  Then  the 
choir  sung  all  the  verses  of  a  long  hymn  an'  stopped. 
No  Bishop  yet. 

"At  nine  o'clock  Father  Steele  appeared  with  the  look 
he  most  gen'lly  uses  in  business.  You  could  'a  heard  a 
pin  drop.  He  jes'  said,  There  won't  be  any  dedication 
tonight/  an'  turned  an'  went  out. 

"Then  you  can  reckon  there  was  a  buzz.  Everybody 
wondered  an'  everybody  surmised,  but  nobody  knew. 
Well,  this  mornin'  early  the  Bishop  he  went,  an'  there 
hadn't  anybody  seen  hide  or  hair  o'  him." 

And  the  old  man  rested  after  his  long  story. 


52  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

"Mercy,  what  you  stopping  for?"  cried  Grandmother, 
her  head  and  silver  ear-trumpet  bent  in  direction  of  the 
Square.  "You've  only  just  begun." 

"It  was  signin'  papers  or  some  such  matter  had  to  be 
done  before  the  religious  part.  The  Bishop — that's  as 
I  understand  it — mebbe  it's  so,  mebbe  't  aint — I  won't 
swear  in  on  it  before  the  law — I'm  no  more  'an  mortal, 
take  me  at  my  best,  Mis'  Lee."  But  something  must 
have  warned  him  not  to  trifle  with  passions  once  roused, 
for  almost  immediately  he  shuffled  on  with  the  narrative : 

"The  Bishop  he  was  writin' — 'This  here  prop'ty  be- 
longin'  to  the  Bishop  o'  New  York 

"  'Hold  on !'  says  Father  Steele,  'What's  that  you're 
sayin'  ?' 

"  'It's  all  right,'  says  the  Bishop  —  'It's  nothin'  but 
form.' 

"  'This  here  chapel  yours  ?  Not  much !  Who  gave  the 
land  an'  furnished  the  money?' 

"  'The  other  good  people  about  here  helped,  didn't 
they?' 

"  'Oh,  they  worked  when  they'd  nothin'  else  to  do ;  an' 
farmers  brought  stun  they  were  glad  to  get  rid  of;  an' 
the  painter  came  slack  days.  They  haven't  any  hold  on 
it  to  speak  of.' 

'  'But  it's  the  rule  of  the  church,  an'  its  only  for  law 
an'  order,  so  to  speak.' 

'  'Well,  I  won't  give  it  to  you  anyhow  ?'  said  Father 
Steele.  Folks  say  he  made  his  family  go  without  enough 
to  eat  so's  the  church  could  be  dedicated  without  debt. 
Mebbe  so,  mebbe  not,  you  can't  believe  all  you  hear  in 
these  unscrup'lous  times.  They  say  he's  pretty  well  fixed. 
Folks  say  they  both  got  madder  'an  hornets — anyhow, 
the  church  wan't  dedicated.  An'  it's  goin'  round  now 
that  Father  Steele'll  turn  Wesleyan  probably.  Mebbe 
so,  mebbe  not." 


CHAPTER  VI. 
THE  SABBATH. 

THE  Sabbath  was  a  day  set  apart.  No  necessary  duty 
was  neglected,  the  household  was  astir  early — no  time 
to  lie  abed  or  be  lazy  on  the  Day  of  the  Lord — never- 
theless, Sunday  had  a  character  all  its  own. 

To  be  sure  there  were  family  prayers  every  morning, 
when  Stephen  and  Ledyard  came  in  from  the  barn  and 
Polly  from  the  kitchen,  Grandmother  and  Aunt  Betsy 
from  their  wring,  and  we  all  sat  down  with  my  father 
and  mother  and  what  uncles  and  aunts  and  cousins  hap- 
pened with  us  at  the  time,  in  the  family  sitting-room. 
The  Bibles  were  passed,  the  chapter  for  the  day  was  given 
out,  and  each  one  read  his  two  verses  in  turn.  At  first 
Stephen,  Ledyard,  and  Polly  had  much  trouble  piecing 
out  their  sentences,  but  their  ambition  was  fired  by  being 
presented  each  one  with  his  own  book,  his  name  written 
very  plainly  on  the  first  page,  and  by  dint  of  much 
help  and  patience  and  repetition  and  practice  on  the  long 
words,  they  became  after  a  time  fairly  intelligent  readers. 

But  on  Sunday  morning  a  longer  time  was  taken — 
a  psalm,  or  chapter  in  Proverbs,  or  the  Sermon  on  the 
Mount  was  read  over  a  number  of  times,  and  then  in 
concert  until  after  a  few  weeks  it  could  be  repeated  by 
any  one. 

Then  came  prayers,  my  father  first,  followed  by  other 
members  of  the  family.  My  Grandmother  sat  next  him, 
trumpet  in  hand,  and  when  he  was  through  she  began. 
I  well  remember  her  stately  words  and  solemn  tone: 

"Ever  living,  ever  blessed  Lord  our  God,  and  Jesus 
Christ  thy  son.  who  bust  the  bonds  of  sin  and  death  on 
that  first  day  of  the  week,  the  holy  Sabbath  morning." 


54  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

The  rest  of  the  prayer  as  well  as  the  beginning  was  in 
keeping  with  the  dominant  tone  of  her  mind  and  manner. 

When  Stephen  first  came  to  our  house,  my  mother 
asked  him  to  go  to  church  with  us  on  Sunday  morning. 

"I'll  go  along  home  and  see  to  mother  and  the  old 
man,"  he  had  replied,  "chop  wood  enough  to  last  a  week, 
and,  if  you  please,  I'd  like  five  pounds  of  salt  pork  to 
take  along." 

So  it  had  been  weighed  out  and  a  pie-shaped  piece  of 
cheese,  a  loaf  of  bread,  or  pat  of  butter  slipped  in  with 
it  and  all  put  in  a  bag  which  he  slung  over  his  shoulder, 
then  he  had  climbed  the  Tiill  back  of  the  house  and  gone 
away  to  his  Sunday. 

The  meeting  began  at  half  past  ten  in  the  morning, 
and  each  one  had  to  hurry  his  particular  duties,  put  the 
house  in  order,  care  for  the  live-stock,  do  the  dairy-work, 
harness  the  horses  and  have  the  carriage  at  the  door — 
all  by  a  few  minutes  after  ten  o'clock. 

The  church  was  in  the  middle  of  a  grassy  square  with- 
out shrub  or  tree  to  relieve  its  bareness.  A  plank  plat- 
form in  front  reached  from  door  to  door,  entrance  to 
the  two  main  aisles.  Between  the  doors  and  at  the 
opposite  end  was  the  pulpit,  high  above  the  slips,  and 
reached  by  a  winding  stair  shut  in  by  doors  with  wooden 
buttons. 

The  churchyard  was  early  filled  with  wagons,  and  a 
crowd  of  men,  women,  children,  and  hired  help.  Old 
ladies  came  in  summer-time  with  turkey-tail  fans  of  their 
own  make  and  a  bunch  of  odorous  mint,  and  in  winter 
with  foot-stoves  full  of  live  coals  from  the  kitchen  fire, 
for  though  the  two  little  box-stoves  near  the  doors  roared 
away  briskly  with  their  beech,  maple,  and  hickory  chunks, 
they  failed  to  modify  the  reign  of  frost  and  cold. 

After  the  first  service  came  the  Sunday-school,  when 
the  children  could  stretch  their  legs  and  jiggle  comforta- 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  55 

bly  on  the  seats  while  they  recited  their  verses,  beginning 
with  the  second  chapter  of  Matthew.  There  were  always 
seven  new  verses,  after  which  we  said  all  we  had  learned 
before  until  the  time  was  up. 

After  Sunday-school  there  was  a  short  intermission. 
The  men  talked  with  their  neighbors,,  looked  after  their 
horses  in  the  shed  back  of  the  church,  stood  in  the  sun 
on  cool  days  and  in  the  shade  in  front  on  warm  days, 
exchanging  views  on  crops,  the  price  of  butter,  or  on 
how  much  money  it  was  best  to  put  in  church  repairs. 
The  women  chatted  in  friendly-wise  around  the  stove 
inside  when  the  weather  demanded  a  fire — everywhere 
that  healthy  interest  in  one  another's  affairs  fallen  with  us 
under  the  name  of  gossip  into  such  disrepute  as  to  run 
the  danger  of  being  lost  in  egoism. 

Mother  Boyd  was  sitting  on  a  feather  cushion  in  a 
corner  of  her  square  pew  one  Sunday  noon,  toasting  her 
feet  over  a  warmer,  and  finishing  a  doughnut,  when 
Jennet  and  her  mother  came  up  to  inquire  about  Julia. 

"Yes,  she's  bad  again;  the  doctor  came  and  with  her 
father's  help  cupped  the  whole  length  of  her  spine. 
She  hasn't  raised  her  head  since." 

"Did  you  ever  think,"  asked  my  mother,  "that  the 
doctors  might  yet  find  something  to  give  so  their  pa- 
tients wouldn't  feel  such  dreadful  pain?  When  a  man 
is  drunk  you  know  he  scarcely  feels  it  if  his  leg  is 
cut  off." 

"If  they  would  only  hurry — Julia  suffers  so !  But  see 
here,  Jennet,  I  almost  forgot  you,"  and  opening  her  big 
dinner-basket  she  took  out  a  fat  cookie,  saying,  "That's 
done  with  my  new  cutter — oak  leaf — Henry  brought  it 
from  Auburn  when  he  came  home  from  school." 

"There  goes  the  minister!"  cried  Jennet,  and  she  and 
her  mother  hastily  retired  to  their  slip  in  the  center  of 
the  church. 


56  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

"Mother,"  whispered  Jennet  presently,  "if  one  of  those 
lamps  ever  break  up  there  on  the  preacher's  desk,  would 
you  get  me  a  piece  of  that  rain-bow  glass  that  jiggles 
so  when  he  pounds  his  fist?" 

"H'sh!" 

Jennet's  glance,  roaming  listlessly,  for  she  was  getting 
sleepy,  over  the  pews  and  windows  and  ceiling,  sud- 
denly came  to  life.  It  had  fallen  on  the  minister's  scalp, 
which  was  moving  down  toward  his  eyebrows,  then 
swiftly  up  and  down  again  according  to  the  thought. 
She  tried  "one,  two,  three,  ready,  go,"  and  was  delighted 
to  find  it  would  fit.  Then  she  looked  around  to  catch 
Joseph's  eye,  but  he  had  been  prudently  seated  next  his 
Uncle  Mathew  with  his  Aunt  Achsah  and  Adeline  and 
Marcia  between,  and  was  busily  counting  the  bubbles  of 
paint  dried  on  the  seat  in  front.  Keeping  time  with 
her  rhythmic  phrase,  which  she  softly  tapped  out  on 
the  cover  of  her  Bible,  her  head  gradually  sank  on  her 
mother's  shoulder  and  she  fell  asleep  almost  without 
knowing. 

Opposite  the  pulpit  sat  the  choir  in  double  rows,  bass 
and  tenor,  air  and  second.  The  leader  played  the  violin, 
one  of  Jennet's  aunts  accompanying  on  the  bass-viol, 
and  beside  these  there  was  a  flute.  The  Presbyterians 
had  long  left  behind  that  stage  of  intolerance  through 
which  the  Baptists  were  then  passing,  and  music  had 
free  way  in  the  service. 

The  afternoon  meeting  was  now  over,  and  the  people 
getting  home  hurried  dinner.  While  the  horses  were 
being  stalled  and  fed  in  the  barn  the  table  was  spread  with 
pork  and  beans  from  the  oven  or  cold  meat  left  over  from 
Saturday's  roast  with  potatoes  warmed  over,  pie,  coffee 
and  pickles.  The  meal  was  soon  ready  and  appetites 
sharpened  by  two  sermons,  the  drive,  the  late  hour,  and 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  57 

the  prospect  of  another  drive  and  sermon  yet  to  come,  as 
quickly  took  it  off  again. 

Now  came  the  time  for  reading  the  "New  York  Evan- 
gelist" and  "Missionary  Herald,"  the  "Female  Guardian," 
or  a  nap  on  the  lounge.  This  was  a  dull  time  for  Jennet 
if  Aunt  Betsy  was  away.  The  Sunday  afternoon  fol- 
lowing the  discussion  of  the  album  quilt  she  would  stand 
looking  out  of  the  south  window  or  run  to  swing  on  the 
gate,  her  face  always  in  the  one  direction  until  at  last 
she  saw  something  stirring  down  by  the  triple-bodied  elm. 
A  second  glance  assured  her  it  was  Aunt  Betsy,  and  away 
she  flew,  hair,  arms,  and  apron-strings  on  the  breeze. 

"What  made  you  stay  so  long?  I  was  just  lonesome 
for  you.  I  got  the  Pictorial  Bible  the  way  I  always  do 
on  Sunday  and  looked  at  the  pictures,  but  they  aren't 
nice  unless  some  one  tells  them  to  me.  Then  I  combed 
mother's  hair  and  braided  it  all  over  till  she  said  every 
hair  in  her  head  was  loose,  and  now  I've  looked  and 
looked  for  you.  What  made  you  stay  so  long?" 

"1  went  to  meeting  this  morning,  and  this  afternoon 
I  stayed  with  Granny  Locke  so  Becky  could  go.  I'm 
afraid  the  old  lady  can't  live  long." 

"Why  don't  you  make  her  well,  Aunt  Betsy?" 
"I'm  only  a  poor  old  ignorant  woman,  Jennet." 
"But  you  make  us  well.  You  have  us  drink  sage  tea 
and  you  put  goose  oil  and  a  woollen  cloth  on  my  neck 
and  I  get  well.  Say,  I'd  rather  have  the  woollen  cloth 
than  the  cold  one  mother  puts  on.  I'll  tell  you  what, 
Aunt  Betsy,  you  be  right  there  with  the  red  woollen  be- 
fore mother  comes  and  she'll  never  make  you  take  it  off. 
I  heard  her  say  to  that  hydropathy  man  how  she  cured 
me  right  up  with  cold  water,  and  now  I  suppose  I'll  have 
it  all  the  time  'cause  it's  queer;  but  I  don't  care,  the  red 
woollen's  just  as  good  and  a  lot  more  comfortable — 
you  tell  her  it's  just  as  good,  Aunt  Betsy.  Oh,  I  remem- 


58  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

her  Granny  Locke,  she  gave  me  six  raisins  when  I  was 
down  there  with  you.  You  must  do  something  for  her." 

"But  I  haven't  any  medicine  that  will  make  an  old 
woman  well  when  her  time  comes  to  die.  We  all  have 
to  go  some  time." 

"Let's  walk  down  to  the  river  and  dig  roots  and  things. 
We  could  go  right  now." 

"I'm  too  tired,  and  besides  it's  Sunday." 

Dear  old  Aunt  Betsy!  I  fear  if  the  youngsters  of 
today  should  see  you  in  that  poke  bonnet  of  dark  blue 
silk  with  only  a  few  folds  of  the  same  for  trimming  on 
the  outside  and  a  white  silk  lining  within,  though  the 
dear  old  wrinkled  face  and  faded  blue  eyes  shone  with 
the  light  of  good  will  and  ready  self-sacrifice,  I'm  afraid 
they  would  laugh  and  nudge  each  other  to  look  at  the 
queer  old  woman  in  her  alpacca  dress  with  no  gore,  or 
plait,  or  flounce,  a  round  cape  of  the  same  coming  to 
the  waist,  a  pair  of  cotton  gloves,  and  a  long  black  bag 
drawn  up  with  a  string,  on  her  arm,  where  she  carried 
her  silver-bowed  spectacles,  her  handkerchief,  and  a  few 
raisins  or  lemon-drops  to  slip  in  any  small  hand  that 
came  near  hers. 

Sunday  evening  and  the  carriage  was  again  brought 
to  the  door.  This  time  Jennet  and  the  old  ladies  stayed 
at  home.  What  was  there  in  that  little  mean,  square, 
ugly  meeting-house  that  it  could  so  easily  govern  the 
conduct  of  the  community  and  draw  the  tithe  of  their 
substance,  that  could  hold  their  tired  bodies  on  hard 
benches  during  four  long  sessions  and  make  them  thank- 
ful for  the  privilege?  It  was  because,  humble  and  mean 
though  it  might  be,  it  was  the  shrine  of  an  ideal  beside 
which  substance,  nay  even  life  itself,  is  but  a  watch  in 
the  night. 

I  can  still  see  the  rows  of  square  pews  running  against 
the  walls  on  three  sides.  Judge  Barak  Miles  sat  just 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  59 

yonder,  with  his  boys,  the  envy  of  youthful  Ravenna,  for 
in  the  pantry  off  his  kitchen  stood  a  bowl  of  copper  and 
silver  change,  where  any  one  in  this  favored  family  might 
help  himself.  And  such  good  use  did  they  make  of  their 
opportunities  that  later  on  there  was  nothing  in  the  bowl, 
and  no  way  to  get  anything  in. 

The  owner  of  the  next  pew  was  Mr.  Richly,  an  under- 
sized, deliberate  person,  important  in  the  village  as  he 
made  the  coffins  for  the  dead,  saw  to  it  they  were  prop- 
erly placed  before  the  pulpit,  opened  and  shut  the  lids 
in  the  church  when  the  public  filed  in  a  long  procession 
to  take  their  last  look,  and  lifted  up  any  child  too  short 
to  get  a  good  view.  Nobody  found  fault  with  him  but 
Old  Phoebe  Wilson,  and  she  was  well  known  to  be  half 
crazy.  No  one  ever  could  make  out  why  she  kept  saying 
in  her  last  sickness,  "If  Sam  Richly  makes  my  coffin 
I'll  kick  the  foot-board  out!  see  if  I  don't,"  though  no 
matter  was  more  frequently  canvassed  at  the  Mite  So- 
ciety days  when  Mrs.  Richly  wasn't  there. 

Next  sat  Old  Colonel  King,  reaching  away  back  of  the 
Declaration  of  Independence.  He  was  in  such  demand 
for  Fourth  of  July  celebrations  that  had  he  lived  in  a 
commercial  era  he  -must  have  made  a  fortune.  But  no 
thought  of  exploiting  his  patriotism  for  the  good  of  his 
pocketbook  had  ever  occurred  to  his  simple  mind.  He 
had  come  to  Ravenna  in  the  first  years  of  the  century, 
had  been,  with  true  Yankee  thrift,  a  farmer  by  day  and 
a  cobbler  by  night  till  easy  circumstances  gave  him  leisure 
to  expand  to  his  heart's  content  the  theme  of  the  good 
old  days  when  man  thought  only  of  duty,  God,  and 
country. 

In  one  corner  was  a  thin,  erect,  grey-headed  man  beside 
a  tiny  woman  in  big  round  spectacles,  both  nearly  eclipsed 
in  winter  by  a  yellow  muff  the  size  of  a  bushel  basket. 
In  spring  when  they  came  out  from  their  barricade  it 


60  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

was  always  a  surprise  to  find  them  quite  ordinary  look- 
ing. Jennet  spoke  of  their  boy — to  herself  of  course — 
as  "the  little  son  of  a  muff."  It  almost  seemed  to  her 
as  if  that  might  be  calling  names,  and  she  thought  of 
what  must  happen  to  the  one  who  should  say  to  his 
brother,  "Thou  Fool."  She  was  very  careful  never  to 
think  fool  at  the  same  time  she  was  thinking  of  little 
Thomas  Quivey,  though  he  did  say  every  Sunday  to  his 
teacher,  "I  learned  the  seven  verses  but  I  can't  say  but 
four,"  and  then  boo-hooed,  poor  little  son  of  the  muff! 

The  pew  opposite  belonged  to  Uncle  Ben  Kinsmore; 
fat,  round,  rosy,  and  never  at  home  unless  in  his  shirt 
sleeves.  Though  Sunday  with  its  high  stock  ,and  stiff 
boots  was  no  doubt  a  trial  to  Uncle  Ben,  the  thought  of 
shirking  never  occurred  to  him.  As  regularly  as  Sunday 
came  he  could  be  heard  squeaking  to  his  seat,  and  blowing 
his  nose  vigorously  from  time  to  time  on  his  white  pocket 
/aandkerchief. 

In  Mr.  Ives'  slip  the  children  ran  up  like  a  pair  of 
stairs.  Among  them  was  the  little  Statira,  half  hidden 
by  a  post  that  supported  the  gallery,  passing  the  time  of 
a  long  sermon  by  pricking  the  initials  of  her  name  on  the 
blank  leaf  of  a  hymn  book.  Once  she  put  the  pin  in  her 
mouth  just  as  her  mother  spied  the  wicked  work  and 
gave  her  a  fearful  nudge.  Down  her  throat  slid  the  pin. 
She  begged  to  go  outside  and  cough  it  up,  but  "Sit  still 
and  behave"  was  her  only  answer.  Her  eyes  filled  with 
tears  as  she  thought  of  her  sin. 

"I  shall  die,  mother,  I  shall  die.  I  know  I  shall. 
Please  let  me  go  out,  I'll  come  right  back." 

"Look  at  the  minister  and  be  still ;  you've  done  mischief 
enough  for  one  day,"  said  the  Puritan  mother. 

Poor  Statira  tried  to  prepare  her  mind  for  meeting  the 
Great  Judge,  but  could  think  only  of  the  pin  slipping 
down,  down — wondering  when  it  would  reach  her  heart. 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  61 

On  one  of  the  Ives  steps  stood  a  pair  of  twins,  Jasa- 
mine  and  Geraldine,  so  much  alike  they  couldn't  be  told 
apart.  They  were  the  only  twins  in  the  valley  and  every- 
body felt  a  personal  pride  in  calling  strangers'  attention 
to  them.  They  were  always  together,  always  dressed 
alike,  and  never  thought  of  themselves  but  as  the  one  or 
the  other  little  twin.  As  one  stood  alone  in  front  of  the 
house  one  morning  a  lady  passing  said : 

"What's  the  matter?  How  do  you  happen  to  be 
alone?" 

"Oh,  ma'am,  I'm  the  good  little  twin,  out  taking  a 
walk,  the  other  is  naughty  and  sits  upstairs  on  a  chair." 

The  cholera  that  swept  this  section  with  such  fearful 
desolation  in  1849  took  our  twins.  They  sickened  and 
died  one  day  apart.  We  buried  them  in  one  grave  and 
the  whole  village  mourned. 

Then  there  was  Deacon  Boyd,  his  hands  resting  on  his 
gold-headed  cane,  unless  the  heat  or  cold  demanded  a 
liberal  use  of  his  silk  pocket  handkerchief.  But  the 
fairest  sight  to  the  children  was  Mother  Boyd  and  her 
big  dinner-basket  full  of  cakes  and  cookies,  pears  and 
apples  for  any  who  came  her  way. 

My  father  sat  in  the  center  of  the  house,  stern,  grave, 
a  very  pillar  of  the  church.  But  the  tired  body  would  get 
the  better  of  the  will  and  his  head  would  nod,  nod  right 
toward  the  minister.  Then  catching  himself  he  would 
strain  his  eyes  wide  open,  looking  straight  ahead  as  if 
nothing  had  happened. 

Two  seats  ahead  was  Mr.  Enderley,  the  young  deacon 
who  teetered  on  his  toes  whenever  he  talked  or  prayed 
in  meeting.  He  spoke  very  fast  and  his  voice,  rising 
and  falling  with  his  teeter,  was  like  the  hum  of  bees  or 
murmur  of  a  distant  waterfall. 

Dear  old  friends!  Gone,  all  gone,  only  the  youngest 
of  the  children  left,  the  grandparents  of  today.  One 


62  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

by  one  you  have  lain  down  to  sleep  the  last  sleep.  The 
dust  of  years  covers  your  bones  and  lays  its  obscuring 
mark  on  your  very  names.  Truly  your  foibles  were  few 
and  your  virtues  many.  Ay,  the  poetry  of  old  age  is — 
when  I  was  a  child. 


CHAPTER  VII. 
GRANNY  GARNSEY. 

ON  the  outskirts  of  the  village  to  the  north,  in  what 
had  once  been  a  doctor's  office,  lived  old  Granny  Garnsey. 
The  hovel  without  paint,  the  yard  without  tree  or  shrub 
or  vegetable  or  fence,  told  well  enough  her  miserable 
estate.  Almost  any  day  the  passer-by  could  see  her  shape- 
less form  bent  double  over  some  little  pile  of  firewood, 
her  scant  calico  skirt  flapping  in  the  wind,  a  shawl  tied 
over  her  head,  her  hands  pinched  and  red  with  cold. 
Winter  or  summer,  the  business  of  life  with  Granny 
Garnsey  lay  in  arranging  and  rearranging,  here  and 
there  about  the  yard,  the  piles  of  fuel  which  the  good 
people  of  the  place  saw  to  it  she  should  never  be  without. 
Perhaps  some  perverted  feminine  instinct,  seeking  back- 
grounds and  pretty  vistas,  wrought  in  these  piles  as,  in 
others,  it  works  in  flowers  and  shrubbery,  and  living 
green. 

The  expressionless  face,  sharp  nose,  pale  eyes  of  quav- 
ering blue  with  their  shadows  of  disappointment  and 
grief,  the  whole  set  in  a  mould  of  stubborn  endurance, 
you  could  read  there  the  hard  sentence  life  had  passed 
on  her — husband  dead,  daughter  dead,  and  sons  who  had 
despised  and  forsaken  her. 

One  room,  barely  furnished,  served  her  domestic  needs 
— a  stove  that  like  its  mistress  had  grown  rheumatic  from 
exposure,  a  high-post  bed,  a  stand  with  claw  feet  on 
which  were  her  Bible,  spectacles,  and  candlestick,  a  small 
mirror  from  whose  upper  third  ladies  in  high  powdered 
hair,  and  skirts  of  brocade  hung  over  tremendous  hoops, 
looked  out  in  gentle  surprise  at  their  surroundings,  a 


64  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

few  dishes  on  the  pantry  shelf  if  the  door  happened  to 
fly  open,  and  in  one  corner  a  dark  wooden  chest. 

No  one  in  the  village  knew  what  was  in  the  chest. 
Once  when  I  had  taken  her  a  basket  of  provisions  I  ven- 
tured to  say: 

"My  Aunt  Deborah  has  a  chest  just  like  yours,  Mrs. 
Garnsey." 

"Yes,  Jennet,  most  every  house  has  one." 

"But  ours  hasn't." 

"Most  likely  your  mother  gave  it  to  one  of  her  sisters 
when  she  was  married — Lydia  or  Marcia — they  went 
from  your  house." 

"My  aunt  let  me  see  what  was  in  hers.  There  were 
pretty  quilts  she  had  pieced,  and  the  things  she  had  worn 
on  her  wedding  day,  a  high-back  tortoise  shell  comb,  her 
silk  long-shawl  with  fringe  on  the  ends,  and  her  bead" 
bag."  I  paused  a  moment,  but  she  didn't  say  anything, 
and  I  went  on: 

"In  the  till  was  a  bunch  of  artificial  roses  and  some- 
times she  puts  them  in  her  glass  candlesticks  on  the  man- 
tel." Then  I  waited  again,  but  no  artifice  tempted  her 
love  to  talk,  and  the  chest  with  its  mystery  was  closed  to 
the  public  for  many  years. 

In  her  high-backed  wooden  rocking-chair  she  sat  by  the 
stove  in  winter,  and  by  the  window  in  summer,  and 
looked  out  on  the  happy  families  riding  by;  men  hurry- 
ing to  work  that  was  sure  to  bring  reward ;  children;  din- 
ner-basket in  hand,  loitering  on  the  way;  ladies  dressed 
in  their  best  passing  to  the  afternoon  tea  or  the  merry 
sewing-circle,  or  the  old  couple  from  the  Lower  Village 
in  their  two-wheeled  caleche.  She  had  plenty  of  time 
for  comparison,  she — with  nothing  to  have  and  nothing  to 
do  and  no  one  to  be  glad  at  her  coming.  But  she  never 
complained  of  her  lot,  or  wondered  why  Providence  had 
taken  her  husband  and  children  and  property.  She  sel- 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  65 

(iom  referred  to  her  happier  days,  and  then  only  to  dwell 
on  its  joyful  side,  and  to  take  a  kind  of  feeble  pride  in 
her  husband's  family,  by  which  she  nourished  the  self- 
respect  no  indigent  circumstances  could  take  from  her. 

The  price  received  for  her  hillside  acres  had  paid  for 
the  bit  of  land  on  which  she  lived,  and  left  a  small  sur- 
plus in  the  hands  of  the  village  merchant.  On  this  she 
had  drawn-  for  necessities  until  it  was  gone,  sometimes 
in  comfort,  sometimes  in  well-concealed  privation. 

When  winter  approached,  the  .men  of  the  church  ap- 
pointed a  day  for  the  "wood  bee"  that  should  supply  her 
with  fuel  for  the  season.  Some  drew  the  logs,  some 
chopped  these  to  stove-length,  and  others  split  kindling. 
For  the  next  few  days  she  would  be  busy  making  it  into 
numerous  little  piles  against  the  house  or  fence,  and 
about  the  yard.  A  week  later  and  these  piles  would  all 
have  changed  places.  This  mania  was  for  years  a  kind 
of  public  benefit  in  Ravenna.  When  other  conversation 
ran  out  and  the  silence  threatened  to  be  uncomfortable, 
"And  how  about  Granny  Garnsey?"  one  would  ask.  "Is 
she  still  piling  wood?  Do  you  know,  I  never  could  make 
out  what  ails  that  woman,  could  you?"  And  then  would 
follow  one  of  Aunt  Betsy's  remarks :  "She's  a  leetle  bit 
derangey,  I  take  it — just  a  leetle  derangey,"  after  which 
conversation  usually  got  on  its  legs  again. 

There  were  things  went  on  in  the  little  cottage  of 
Granny  Garnsey  not  approved  of  by  the  good  house- 
keepers of  Ravenna,  and  as  she  had  no  means  of  liveli- 
hood save  as  kindly  disposed  persons  remembered  her 
with  stores  of  provisions,  the  neighbors  at  length  de- 
clared the  best  place  for  her  was  in  the  county-house, 
and  the  poormaster  was  advised  to  come  for  her. 

Every  one  thought  this  an  arrangement  for  her  com- 
fort— every  one  except  the  poor  woman  herself,  who  flew 
into  a  rage,  fought  with  all  the  valor  of  her  tongue,  dared 


66 

the  poormaster  to  show  his  face  inside  her  door,  screamed 
she  would  never  go — she'd  die  first. 

This  outburst  on  the  part  of  the  meek  woman  whose  con- 
stant refrain  in  company  was,  "I  think  just  so,"  alarmed 
the  good  people  of  Ravenna.  "Let  her  alone,"  they  said, 
and  apples,  potatoes,  and  meat  were  again  dropped  at 
her  door,  and  the  "wood  bee"  called  into  service. 

And  after  that  if  the  county-house  ever  by  chance 
loomed  on  the  horizon  of  the  conversation,  a  spot  of  color 
would  rise  in  her  cheek,  a  wrathful  fire  kindle  in  her 
eye,  and  her  whole  body  quiver  with  anger. 

"Thank  the  Lord,"  she  would  say,  "I  have  a  place  of 
my  own  that  nobody  can  set  me  out  of.  The  poor-house 
is  good  enough  for  folks  that  haven't  any  home.  I'm 
not  reduced  to  that." 

There  were  about  half  a  dozen  houses  in  the  village 
open  for  her  to  visit  whenever  she  liked.  Here  she 
would  go  for  the  day  and  could  be  sure  of  a  well-filled 
basket  when  she  went  home.  It  was  a  matter  of  course 
that  she  should  wipe  the  dishes  after  dinner,  and  pick  up 
the  stocking  in  process  of  knitting;  but  the  thought  still 
rankled  in  the  minds  of  a  few  that  the  shabby  old  woman 
might  do  for  herself — she  was  well  and  strong — or  go 
to  the  alms-house.  The  trouble  was  no  one  wanted  such 
help  as  the  poor  inefficient  old  woman  could  give. 

But  she  had  one  staunch  friend.  Mrs.  Jeremiah  Dix 
never  forgot  the  time  Johnnie  died  of  the  cholera — how 
friends  shunned  the  house  and  sent  inquiries  only  by 
the  doctor — how  Granny  Garnsey  had  come  with  her 
basket  as  if  for  one  of  her  periodical  visits,  and  had 
baked  and  washed  and  scrubbed  till  it  was  over.  Why, 
I  don't  doubt  the  poor  soul,  shabby,  incapable,  and  even 
a  "lettle  bit  derangey,"  had  looked  to  her  much  like  an 
angel  from  heaven.  And  through  the  long  years  when 
they  were  growing  old  together  there  was  never  a  tale 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  67 

of  misery,  of  suffering,  or  hunger,  never  a  storm,  or  high 
wind,  but  Mrs.  Jeremiah  Dix  would  wonder  how  it  was 
going  in  Granny  Garnsey's  cottage,  and  post  some  one 
off  with  a  basket  of  good  things. 

One  cold  raw  night,  when  the  snow  was  piling  high 
around  the  doors,  filling  the  paths,  and  making  a  chair  in 
the  corner  by  the  kitchen  fire  the  most  desirable  spot  on 
earth,  Mrs.  Jeremiah,  her  supper  work  over,  set  a  pan 
of  apples  on  the  table,  put  some  shelled  corn  in  the 
popper,  took  up  her  knitting,  and  settled  herself  for  a 
quiet  evening.  Just  then  Henry,  a  boy  of  twelve,  came 
blustering  in,  shaking  the  snow  from  his  comforter, 
stamping  his  feet,  grumbling  about  the  cold,  and  blow- 
ing on  his  fingers,  which  had  been  almost  frozen  in  spite 
of  the  woollen  mittens.  He  pulled  the  "New  York  Weekly 
Tribune"  from  his  pocket,  flung  it  on  the  table, 
picked  up  an  apple  from  the  dish,  which  he  held  in  his 
teeth  while  he  sat  down  on  the  wooden  settle  behind  the 
stove  to  draw  off  his  wet  boots. 

His  mother's  fingers  flew  fast  over  the  yarn  and  the 
needles  rattled  and  clicked.  The  storm  was  rising,  the 
snow  beat  hard  against  the  glass,  and  the  wind  roared  in 
the  chimney.  Mrs.  Jeremiah  sighed. 

"It's  a  sad  night  for  the  poor  and  homeless,  Henry." 

"Now  mother.  Granny  Garnsey's  all  right!  Don't  you 
begin  to  worry." 

The  wind  grew  stronger  and  whistled  round  the  cor- 
ners with  the  peculiar  sound  that  means  a  temperature 
below  zero.  Sometimes  a  gust  pushing  under  the  win- 
dow-frame rattled  the  leaves  of  the  newspaper  on  the 
table. 

"Yes,  you'd  better  go,  Henry.  Think  if  she  should  be 
without  food  or  fire !" 

"I  can't,  mother,. my  boots  are  off.    Tomorrow'll  do." 

"Do  you  remember  how  it  feels  to  be  hungry?" 


68  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

"My  feet  are  wet  now  going  to  the  post-office.  I  never 
can  pull  on  my  boots  when  they're  wet — I  don't  want  to 

go." 

"I'll  help  you  get  them  on,"  and  she  went  out  first  to 
fill  the  basket. 

"I  don't  want  to  go,  but  if  you  say  so,  I  suppose  I'll 
have  to." 

Mrs.  Jeremiah  helped  him  on  with  his  boots  and  cap 
and  ear-muffs,  comforter  and  mittens,  and  gave  him  a 
kiss  to  shame  him  on  his  reluctant  way. 

"There  now,  keep  up  courage,  you  won't  be  long;  see 
there's  wood  in  her  box— carry  in  an  armful  anyway — 
maybe  she  can't  get  out  in  the  morning  for  the  snow. 
I'll  have  the  corn  ready  when  you  get  back  and  maybe 
some  stirred  sugar." 

The  trench  where  the  path  ran  was  full  to  the  brim, 
the  sharp  flakes  driven  by  a  fierce  wind  scratched  his 
cheeks  and  blinded  his  eyes,  and  feeling  his  way  rather 
by  sense  than  by  sight  the  boy  trudged  on,  nursing  his 
bad  feelings  till  at  length  he  reached  his  destination. 
He  knocked;  no  one  answered. 

"Mrs.  Garnsey,"  he  called.  "It's  Henry,  Mrs.  Garn- 
sey;  mother  has  sent  you  a  basket." 

Reassured  by  the  familiar  voice  the  old  woman  got 
out  of  bed  and  came  to  the  door.  The  hinges  grated 
harshly  in  the  cold,  the  door  creaked  and  snapped  where 
the  white  frost  had  tried  to  bind  it  fast.  At  length'  she 
appeared,  her  candle  shaded  with  one  hand,  throwing 
into  wierd  relief  her  white  nightcap,  and  the  ragged 
quilt  wrapped  about  her  scant  shoulders. 

"Oh !"  he  gasped  in  dismay,  for  she  seemed  more  ghost 
than  mortal,  but  before  he  could  run  away,  as  he  had 
a  mind  to  .do,  she  had  pulled  him  in  and  taken  charge  of 
the  basket. 

"Bless  your  good  mother  for  thinking  of  me,  and  you 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  69 

are  a  good  angel  too,  coming  out  this  wild  night.  I  am 
hungry.  I  had  gone  to  bed  to  try  and  forget,  but  your 

blessed  mother "  The  old  woman  was,  however,  quite 

unable  to  finish  her  sentence. 

Henry  had  by  this  time  forgotten  his  grievance  and 
was  filling  the  wood-box,  stirring  up  the  fire,  fetching 
in  a  pail  of  water  and  whistling  at  the  same  time. 

"Anything  more  I  can  do,  Mrs.  Garnsey  ?" 

"God  bless  you,  my  boy !  bless  you !  bless  you !"  fol- 
lowed him  out  into  the  snow  and  wind  and  storm.  His 
light  heart  kept  feet  and  hands  and  cheeks  tingling,  and 
it  seemed  no  time  till  he  was  pulling  off  his  wet  boots 
again  on  the  settle  behind  the  kitchen  fire. 

Mrs.  Garnsey  was  a  faithful  attendant  at  the  Meeting- 
House  on  Sunday.  She  sat  in  the  very  back  seat  and 
gave  the  strictest  attention.  Her  large  poke  bonnet  was 
tied  closely  under  her  chin  and  over  it  hung  a  veil  a 
yard  long  with  great  hand-embroidered  flowers  across 
the  bottom.  When  the  wind  was  cold  and  rough  it  was 
drawn  over  her  face,  but  on  reaching  the  church  she 
folded  it  carefully  back  on  the  top  of  her  bonnet,  while 
its  width  hung  down  on  either  side.  A  shawl  summer  and 
winter  served  the  double  purpose  of  keeping  her  warm 
and  hiding  what  was  beneath  from  any  too  curious 
eye,  and  she  had  always  a  neatly  folded  pocket  handker- 
chief that  was  never  shaken  out. 

Meantime  years  had  gone  by;  my  parents  had  re- 
moved to  a  distant  state,  the  neighbor  opposite  where  she 
had  so  often  warmed  her  feet  and  eaten  her  dinner  ha'd 
sold  her  house  and  gone  to  live  with  children.  Other 
friends  had  grown  old  and  passe.d  away,  and  when  Mrs. 
Jeremiah  Dix  died,  in  the  very  act  of  filling  the  time- 
honored  basket,  it  seemed  as  if  Granny  Garnsey  was  to 
outlive  all  her  generation.  Again  the  poormaster  went 
to  advise  her  removal  to  the  county-house.  He  described 


70  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

the  new  building  where  she  would  have  a  warm,  com- 
fortable room,  plenty  to  eat,  and  personal  care  when  she 
needed  it. 

"You're  older  now  than  the  law  allows,  Mrs.  Garnsey. 
The  Bible  says  three  score  and  ten,  and  you're  over 
eighty,  now,  ain't  you?" 

"Eighty-six  come  March." 

"And  the  old  friends  are  all  gone." 

"Ay,  ay." 

"Well,  you  think  it  over,  and  I'll  come  in  again  to- 
morrow morning,"  and  he  left  without  waiting  for  an 
answer. 

And  she  did  think  it  over — all  day  she  thought  and 
thought,  sitting  in  her  wooden  rocker.  Slowly  the  truth 
sunk  into  her  mind.  She  was  old.  She  must  grow  more 
feeble;  even  now  she  would  rather  do  without  the  milk 
a  neighbor  offered  than  go  to  fetch  it.  Piling  wood  was 
a  weariness,  her  rags  were  an  apology  for  clothes,  and 
her  shawl,  its  respectability  too  was  gone,  while  each 
year  the  wind  found  easier  access  under  the  decaying 
clapboards  of  the  little  cottage. 

That  night  witnessed  the  fight  of  her  life,  but  not  with 
neighbors  or  county  officials — no  human  eye  saw  the 
agony  of  the  conflict. 

"And  I  said  I  wouldn't  ever  go.  Cold,  and  hunger,  and 
loneliness  for  thirty  years,  all  nothing !  nothing !  And  I 
always  intended  to  die  in  my  own  bed,  and  be  buried 
by  my  husband  and  daughter;  to  be  carried  to  the  poor- 
house  to  herd  with  the  offscouring  of  the  county!  and 
be  hustled  into  a  pauper's  grave! 

'  'Rattle  her  bones  over  the  stones, 
For  she  is  a  pauper  whom  nobody  owns.' 

that's  what  the  children'll  say." 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  71 

She  couldn't  sleep,  she  couldn't  cry,  only  a  dull  ache 
filled  her  whole  body ;  then  her  thoughts  turned  to  that 
Refuge  where  she  so  often  had  found  relief.  Surely  He 
would  not  forsake  her  in  her  old  age,  He  who  is  God  to 
the  widow  and  the  fatherless."  She  crept  to  her  knees 
and  prayed : 

"Make  me  willing,  Father,  make  me  willing  to  go.  I 
know  it  is  best.  I  know  it  is  right.  I  am  the  last  one 
left — the  last  one  left.  Thy  will  be  done,  Lord;  I  must 
be  willing — I  am  willing!"  Then  peace  came  into  her 
soul  and  she  lay  down  and  slept. 

When  daylight  came,  her  mind  was  made  up  to  go. 
She  busied  herself  with  the  last  preparations,  put  her 
scant  wardrobe  into  a  satchel  and  set  it  down  by  the 
door,  so  that  if  the  summons  came  suddenly  she  might 
be  ready.  There  was  one  last  thing — to  take  farewell 
of  what  was  in  the  chest.  She  had  forced  herself  to 
accept  pauper's  food  and  pauper's  shelter  and  the  lonely 
aeons  in  a  pauper's  grave,  away  from  all  she  loved,  but 
the  chest  must  not  be  desecrated,  it  must  be  left  behind. 

She  went  over  and  raised  the  top ;  her  heart  almost 
failed,  and  her  head  dropped  in  her  hands.  Then  brush- 
ing away  her  tears,  "I  will  be  brave,"  she  said  to  her- 
self, and  sat  down  to  say  good-bye  to  all  there  was  left 
of  what  life  had  once  seemed  to  be.  A  coat  with  brass 
buttons — her  husband  had  worn  it  as  a  militia  officer, 
the  long  white  plume  yellowing  with  age,  and  the  sword. 
So  he  had  died.  Then  her  daughter  had  died.  She  had 
never  been  herself  since,  she  knew  it.  Then  the  losses, 
and  her  husband's  proud  cousin  who  had  enticed  her 
boys  to  the  city — they  never  came  back — the  rare  letters, 
and  then  the  silence.  She  lifted  the  dress  her  little  girl 
had  last  worn  and  the  amber  beads  she  had  loved.  She 
went  to  the  high-backed  rocker  by  the  stove  and  sat  down 
to  think  it  out  once  more.  Lovingly  she  smoothed  out 


72  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

the  folds  of  the  dress  and  fondled  the  yellow  beads.  One 
yearning  cry  escaped  her: 

"Daughter,  daughter,  if  only  you  had  lived !  Some  one 
to  love  me,  some  one  to  care  for  me!" 

Her  head  leaned  on  the  chair  back,  her  hands  loosened 
from  their  grasp,  all  was  silence. 

At  ten  o'clock  the  poormaster  knocked.  There  was  no 
answer.  He  lifted  the  latch  and  stumbled  over  the 
satchel.  Granny  Garnsey  sat  quite  still  in  her  chair, 
with  her  treasures  in  her  lap.  God  had  saved  her  in 
her  need — she  had  escaped  the  poor-house. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
BRIDGET  DONOVAN. 

JUST  how  Mike  Donovan,  an  Irishman  from  London- 
derry, dropped  down  in  our  unmixed  American  Ra- 
venna, was  a  mystery.  There  was  no  railroad  building 
within  fifty  miles,  no  canal  being  dug,  no  factories  re- 
quiring hands  other  than  those  of  the  proprietor  and 
his  own  sons.  And  when  he  died,  shortly  after,  his 
wife  was  left  with  nothing  but  her  brogue  and  two  help- 
less children  to  attract  the  interest  of  a  community  whose 
manners  and  traditions  and  ideals  were  quite  strange 
and  new  to  her.  But  kindness  is  a  language  known  the 
world  over,  and  when  the  merchant  of  the  Brick  Store 
moved  off  an  ell  from  a  house  belonging  to  him,  made 
jt  weather-proof,  painted  it  red,  and  gave  it  to  the  widow 
vdth  a  bit  of  land  about  it,  Ravenna  seemed  to  her  an- 
other name  for  Paradise. 

Behind  the  house  fluttering  in  the  wind  was  always  a 
line  of  stockings  and  shirts,  of  sheets  and  pillow-cases. 
She  was  the  village  washer-woman,  and  eked  out  her 
little  income  by  helping  in  her  neighbors'  kitchens  during 
sickness  or  any  special  emergency.  A  good  faithful  in- 
dependent worker,  she-  was  as  useful  and  necessary  as 
any  member  of  the  commonwealth.  A  healthy  self-re- 
spect had  the  Widow  Donovan,  who  felt  herself  no  whit 
beneath  her  more  prosperous  neighbors,  Their  good  for- 
tune she  enjoyed  as  if  it  had  been  her  own,  and  their 
griefs  too  lay  close  to  her  heart. 

Every  Sunday  morning,  rain  or  shine,  clean  and 
dressed  in  their  best,  went  Widow  Donovan  and  her 
boys  to  church.  Their  beaming  faces  told  what  a  gala- 
day  it  was,  this  doing  nothing  but  sit  still,  visit  in  the 


74  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

intermissions,  with  thought  of  the  good  dinner  that 
waited  at  home. 

And  at  the  sociables  and  donation  parties,  though 
Bridget,  it  is  true,  stood  in  the  kitchen  washing  dishes, 
she  had  given  her  mite  and  her  services,  and  she  too  felt 
a  kind  of  property  in  the  swing  of  merriment  that 
drifted  back  through  the  moving  doors. 

"The  Lord  be  praised!"  she  would  shout  when  word 
was  passed  each  year  that  the  village  bachelor  had  do- 
nated ten  dollars,  or  shake  her  head  over  the  new  mil- 
liner's gift  of  two  lean  old  hens,  muttering,  "Who  can 
understand  his  errors?" 

The  years  had  softened  her  brogue  till  few  could  have 
told  her  from  a  native  of  Ravenna.  Quick,  sympathetic, 
and  imitative,  she  had  fitted  herself  into  the  new  sur- 
roundings as  if  she  had  been  born  to  them.  Only  once 
was  she  known  to  refer  to  the  unhappy  past,  which  had 
driven  her  with  so  many  others  into  the  land  of  promise. 
That  was  when  little  Frankie  Miles  turned  up  his  nose 
because  the  chicken  was  boiled  instead  of  being  stuffed 
and  roasted. 

"Little  man,"  she  said,  "do  you  know  there  are  folks 
so  hungry  they  can't  sleep  nights  for  the  pain  in  their 
innards?  Why,  I  remember  in  Ireland  when  a  lot  of  us 
turned  over  dung-hills  to  see  if  we  couldn't  find  some- 
thing to  eat.  This  country,  sir,  is  Paradise !  An'  if  they 
aint  a  hell,  they  ought  be,  for  such  as  find  fault,"  and 
Bridget  Donovan  went  back  to  her  tub,  leaving  Frankie 
with  eyes  wide  open  and  a  great  fear  in  his  heart. 

There  was  an  old  country  habit  still  clinging  to  Bridget 
about  which  she  evidently  felt  some  delicacy  —  she 
smoked  a  stained  clay  pipe.  How  people  knew  this  for 
sure,  I  can't  say.  She  was  never  seen  with  it,  she  never 
spoke  about  it,  and  no  one  ever  mentioned  it  to  her. 
But  it  was  a  fact  established  in  the  village  annals  — 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  75 

Widow  Donovan  smoked  tobacco — therein  was  she  set 
off,  peculiar,  and  different  among  the  Puritan  folk  of 
Ravenna  who,  accepting  the  fact  with  grief,  took  all  the 
pains  to  conceal  it  one  takes  with  a  family  error. 

She  had  a  personal  interest  in  everybody.  When  the 
young  man  from  the  west  came  back  to  visit  relatives, 
and  left  a  bit  of  work  with  her,  she  was  honored.  Or 
when  an  old  resident  came  home  from  the  Black  River 
country  on  Lake  Ontario  and  brought  her  a  bundle  of 
fine  clothes  to  do  up,  dropping  a  little  gift  in  her  hand 
for  the  sake  of  old  times,  life  seemed  bright  indeed. 

Her  garden  fence  was  covered  with  clematis,  wild 
cucumber,  and  morning  glories.  Their  bright  leaves  and 
gay  blossoms  hid  the  homely  things  that  filled  her  cel- 
lar with  winter  cheer.  A  large  evergreen  tree  stood 
close  beside  her  door,  and  under  its  shade  she  would 
sit  on  summer  afternoons  in  her  Boston  rocker,  sewing 
and  greeting  with  a  cordial  nod  any  acquaintance  who 
chanced  to  cross  the  two  planks  that  bridged  the  grass- 
covered  ditch  between  her  door  and  the  road.  The 
hearty  good-will  in  her  voice  when  she  passed  the  time 
of  day  spoke  for  her  blithe  temperament,  and  called  out 
a  corresponding  mood  of  hope  and  courage,  so  that 
everyone  felt  a  trifle  happier  for  having  seen  the  Widow 
Donovan. 

At  last  she  grew  old  and  feeble  and  dropped  down  in 
stature.  The  line  of  clothes  at  the  back  door  swung 
less  often  and  finally  dwindled  to  little  more  than  the 
black  cord  stretching  from  post  to  post.  Her  children 
had  grown  up  now,  and  looked  after  her  wants  as  she 
had  done  so  many  years  for  theirs.  "This  is  life  for 
a  king!"  she  would  say,  beaming  on  them,  and,  though 
her  muscles  were  withered  and  her  face  seamed,  her 
spirits,  blossoming  on  in  hope  and  thanksgiving,  set  their 
stamp  on  the  community. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

JENNET. 
(1)  THE  RED  STOCKINGS. 

"I  DON'T  like  those  red  stockings!  I  don't  like  'em!" 
Jennet's  voice  was  hard  and  she  scowled  at  her  clothes 
which  were  lying  ready  for  her  on  the  chair. 

"Why,  my  dear,  those  are  nice  new  stockings,"  said 
her  mother  in  gentle  tones.  "I  want  you  to  put  them  on 
because  this  afternoon  you  are  going  to  wear  your  turkey 
red  dress.  They  will  look  so  nice  with  it,  and  we  will 
go  up  to  see  Aunt  Lucia." 

"I  don't  like  'em!"  insisted  Jennet.  "The  girls  at 
school  all  point  at  'em  and  say,  'Look  there !'  "  and  Jennet 
dropped  to  the  floor  and  buried  her  face  amid  a  shower 
of  tears. 

In  the  corner  of  the  kitchen  stood  the  hand-loom,  and 
Aunt  Betsy,  hearing  the  beloved  child,  got  off  the  high 
bench  on  which  she  was  sitting,  came  forward,  and 
stooped  low  to  whisper  something  in  her  ear.  The  cry- 
ing ceased,  the  face  cleared,  and  the  little  brown  head 
with  its  tangle  of  curls  lifted  to  the  old  lady  with  a 
tender  look  in  the  danc  eyes. 

She  put  on  the  red  stockings  and  laced  her  shoes  with 
leather  strings  so  stout  they  never  broke.  She  ate  her 
breakfast  of  bread  and  milk,  her  hair  was  combed,  she 
brought  in  a  pan  of  chips  from  the  near  wood-pile  and 
put  it  under  the  stove  to  dry,  then  a  few  sticks  of  wood 
were  dropped  in  the  box  behind  and  her  work  was  done. 
It  was  now  eleven  o'clock  and  Jennet  had  gone  again  and 
again  to  the  old  woman  weaving  at  the  loom  and  whis- 
pered, "Is  it  time?" 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  77 

At  last  Aunt  Betsy  drew  the  shuttle  out  slowly,  beat 
up  the  yarn  with  a  bang  of  the  lathe,  pushed  back  the 
bench  on  which  she  was  sitting,  and  looked  out  of  the 
window  with  her  hand  shading  her  eyes  to  judge  the 
height  the  sun  had  gained  in  the  sky. 

"1  think  it's  nigh  eleven  o'clock,"  she  remarked,  as 
she  took  down  a  sun-bonnet  from  a  nail  in  the  wall. 
Jennet's  was  already  in  her  hand.  A  tin  cup  and  pail 
were  found,  and  the  two  started  across  the  fields  of 
newly  mown  hay.  The  air  was  sweet  with  its  fragrance, 
the  robins  were  chirping  a  gay  song,  a  lone  quail  from 
a  safe  retreat  among  the  briar  bushes  was  piping  a  call 
to  its  mate  who  whistled  an  answer  from  the  hill,  and 
the  golden  sunlight  filled  earth  and  air  with  life  and  the 
joy  of  being. 

At  the  foot  of  a  little  rise  of  ground  Jennet  bent  over, 
pushed  back  the  leaves  and  cried,  "I've  found  one !  such 
a  big  red  one  !  See  the  first  strawberry  this  year !  Must 
I  throw  it  over  my  shoulder,  Aunt  Betsy,  for  luck? 
Stephen  says  you  must." 

"Sho',  that's  just  one  of  Stephen's  notions." 

Both  bent  low  over  the  ground,  pushing  aside  the 
clover  blossoms,  and  the  yellow  buds  of  the  sheep  sorrel, 
hunting  for  scattered  clumps  of  berries,  and  when  they 
lay  fair  to  the  sun  the  scarlet  fruit  hung  large  and  juicy, 
each  with  its  crown  of  green  petals,  as  Aunt  Betsy's  hand 
dropped  them  in  the  pail. 

Jennet  had  been  dancing  around,  chattering  like  a 
bird  at  dawn,  and  now  when  she  saw  how  few  there 
were  in  her  cup  while  Aunt  Betsy's  pail  was  nearly  full, 
her  face  dropped  and  a  deep  scowl  drew  a  line  between 
her  brows.  Suddenly  a  bright  thought  dawned  on  her. 
She  would  pour  her  berries  into  the  pail,  and  then  she 
could  say,  "See !  Aunt  Betsy,  and  I  picked  'em."  Happy 
child,  if  only  when  you  are  a  woman  you  can  sight  as 


78  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

quick  a  remedy  when  you  see  friends  in  fairer  places 
than  your  own — if  when  others  succeed  and  you  fail, 
you  can  yet  say,  "All  things  work  together  for  my  good — 
I  shall  see  by  and  by." 

There  was  a  slight  embankment  running  along  the 
bottom  of  the  high  hill  which  had  once  been  a  canal 
carrying  water  to  a  distillery  on  the  farm  below  and  to 
the  grist-mill  at  the  village.  Here  they  sat  down  to  rest 
and  talk  and  hull  the  berries. 

.  "What's  this  little  hill  for,  Aunt  Betsy  ?  Is  it  the  big 
one's  foot?  There's  its  head  up  among  the  trees  that 
stand  right  against  the  clouds.  Can't  we  go  up  there, 
some  day?  We  could  touch  the  sky  and  see  what  it's 
made  of.  Has  the  hill  got  a  name?  Aunt  Lucia  said 
the  hill  back  of  her  house  was  the  Old  Colonel's  Hill, 
because  it  once  belonged  to  old  Colonel  King." 

"This  hill  used  to  belong  to  Bildad  Benson,  before 
your  father  bought  it.  You  could  call  it  Benson's  Top." 

"I  don't  like  that,"  said  Jennet.  "But  we  could  call 
it  Old  Ben,  or  Uncle  Ben,  just  as  if  Uncle  Ben  were  a 
man  with  candy  or  an  orange.  Don't  you  see,  Uncle 
Ben  has  kicked  out  his  foot  and  covered  it  with  straw- 
berries, and  up  under  his  shoulder  on  that  little  hill  is  a 
patch  of  blackberries  all  in  blossom  now.  I  like  Uncle 
Ben.  And  there  is  the  lane  that  leads  from  the  house 
up  the  hill  to  the  pasture  where  the  cows  walk  so  slow, 
just  like  you.  There's  peppermint  there  and  little  green 
cheeses,  and  sorrel  in  most  every  fence  corner.  They're 
all  good  to  eat.  Did  you  know  that,  Aunt  Betsy?  And 
on  the  other  side  is  the  big  pile  of  stones  ancl  two  pine 
stumps  turned  bottom  upwards.  Cousin  Joseph  says 
they  look  just  like  a  castle  when  you're  a  little  way  off. 
There  are  the  towers  standing  high  and  the  square  keep 
in  the  middle,  like  Uncle  Tucker  said,  and  little  roofs 
and  chimneys  sticking  out  everywhere.  I  never  saw  a 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  79 

castle,  but  I  guess  Joseph  did — in  Boston.     They  have 

everything  in  Boston,  Joseph  says.    And  there's  a  story, 

Aunt  Betsy,  about  Alonzo  and  Imogene,  who  lived  in  a 

castle.     Do  you  know  that  story?" 

"No,  but  your  mother  sings  a  song  about  them." 
"Oh,  good !  and  does  she  sing  about  the  worms  when 

the  knight  took  off  his  helm — is  that  what  you  call  it? 

But  there's  father  and  the  boys  going  home  to  dinner. 

Did  you   hear  the  dinner-horn?     I  guess   Polly  didn't 

blow  it  hard,  don't  you?" 

(2)  THE  PLAID  DRESS. 

AUNT  BETSY  had  been  busy  in  the  fall  making  ready 
a  piece  of  plaid  flannel  for  Jennet's  new  winter  dress. 
The  brown  yarn  was  colored  with  butternut  shucks, 
madder  made  the  red,  and  the  dye-tub  behind  the  kitchen 
stove,  where  she  wrung  out  skeins  of  yarn  each  morn- 
ing and  shook  them  in  the  wind,  gave  the  indigo  blue. 

Jennet  had  watched  the  process  of  spinning,  coloring, 
warping,  and  weaving,  and  when  the  plaids  first  came 
to  view  she  didn't  like  them ;  they  were  not  so  pretty  as 
the  stripes  in  the  dress  she  was  wearing  with  their  colors 
bright  and  varied  as  the  rainbow.  But  she  said  nothing 
of  her  dislike  until  it  came  from  the  woollen  mill  where 
it  had  been  sent  to  be  pressed.  This  gave  it  a  smooth 
finish  that  would  last  a  long  time,  a  touch  of  elegance 
where  the  clothes  of  most  children  were  made  up  straight 
from  the  loom.  She  looked  and  looked,  and  at  last 
cried  out: 

"I  don't  like  it!     I  don't  like  it!" 

"You  ought  to  be  glad  to  have  such  a  nice  warm  dress ; 
there  are  little  girls  that  have  nothing  but  old  clothes," 
said  her  mother. 

But  this  reflection  on  the  uneven  distribution  of  goods 
failing  to  make  the  plaid  any  prettier  in  Jennet's  eyes, 


80  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

her  mother  continued:  "Think  how  hard  Aunt  Betsy 
has  worked  and  so  long  to  spin  and  weave  it.  It  isn't 
kind  to  her  not  to  like  it." 

At  this  Jennet  burst  into  tears.  She  hated  the  plaid, 
but  she  loved  dear  old  Aunt  Betsy  and  couldn't  bear  to 
hurt  her  feelings.  When  grief  could  no  longer  flow  in 
tears  she  ran  to  her  grandmother's  room.  There  she 
was  sure  of  sympathy,  and  something  good  to  eat  as 
well. 

The  old  lady  had  just  finished  her  dinner  and  was 
rocking  a  few  minutes  in  her  chair  before  putting  the 
things  away. 

"What's  the  matter,  Jennet?    You've  been  crying." 

"I  just  hate  that  new  plaid  for  my  dress,  I  just  hate 
it !  Do  you  like  it,  Grandma  ?" 

"To  tell  the  truth,  I  don't.  You  ought  to  have  some 
of  that  pretty  delaine  they  have  at  the  Brick  Store. 
Your  father  can  afford  it  and  you  ought  to  be  dressed 
as  well  as  the  best  in  the  town.  But  cheer  up.  I  have 
something  for  you,  a  nice  cup  of  green  tea  and  a  piece 
of  apple  pie  seasoned  with  rose  butter.  Your  mother 
doesn't  like  you  to  drink  tea,  so  I'll  make  it  weak,  but 
it'll  be  good,  and  there's  nothing  like  tea  when  one's  out 
of  sorts,"  and  handing  her  the  cup  she  said,  "There, 
drink  that  while  I  clear  the  table  and  wash  the  dishes. 

"And  now,  Jennet,  let's  see  what  you  know.  You've 
got  beyond  b,  a,  ba ;  b,  i,  bi ;  b,  o,  bo ;  b,  u,  bu ;  but  can 
you  spell  baker?" 

"I  don't  like  to  spell,  anyway,  Grandma." 

"That  reminds  me,  I  saw  you  scratch  your  head  last 
night,  Jennet.  You  go  to  that  district  school  where  all 
the  rag-tag  and  bob-tail  go,  and  it's  no  wonder.  If  I 
had  my  way  you  should  go  to  some  nice  select  school 
where  you  would  learn  manners  and  be  fit  to  go  with 
me  sometime  to  see  your  relatives  in  New  York  City. 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  81 

"Well,  we'll  see ;  you  bring  the  cricket  to  my  chair," 
and  Grandmother  Lee  took  a  white  cloth  from  the  bu- 
reau drawer  and  seated  herself  in  the  splint-bottomed 
rocker  with  the  child  on  the  cricket  at  her  feet.  She 
gently  untangled  the  brown  curls,  removed  the  snarls, 
and,  notwithstanding  the  ohs  and  ows,  held  firmly  to 
her  work,  passed  the  fine-tooth  comb  back  and  forth 
over  hear  head,  and  finally  drenching  the  hair  in  cam- 
phor, exclaimed,  "There !" 

Then  Grandmother  tied  on  a  clean  apron,  put  on  her 
silver-bowed  spectacles,  took  her  sewing  and  went  out 
to  the  family  sitting-room. 

"Jennet,  I'm  thirsty ;  will  you  get  me  a  drink  of  water?" 
Jennet  went  to  the  well  and  brought  a  tumbler  of  fresh 
water;  then  she  began  stringing  some  beads. 

"Jennet,  you  bring  me  a  pillow-case  from  the  press. 
I'm  using  black  thread  and  I  can't  see  to  get  it  through 
the  needle  without  a  white  cloth."  The  pillow-case  was 
brought,  and  again  she  began  on  the  beads,  having  trou- 
bles of  her  own  with  knots  and  holes  too  small  for  the 
needle. 

"Jennet,  don't  you  want  to  run  around  to  my  room  and 
in  the  little  drawer  of  my  bureau  at  the  right  hand  you'll 
find  a  cake  of  bees'-wax?  My  thread  doesn't  act  right." 

Jennet  wouldn't  show  reluctance,  but  her  spirit  re- 
belled against  the  form  of  asking  the  favor.  She  thought 
her  grandmother  might  say,  "Are  you  willing  to  go," 
and  not  "Don't  you  want  to?"  "I  don't  want  to  go,"  she 
said  to  herself,  "but  I  will  because — because  it  wouldn't 
be  nice  not  to." 

"Sister  Peck,"  said  Grandmother,  when  Jennet  was 
out  of  the  room,  "why  in  the  world  didn't  you  make  a 
prettier  checK  for  Jennet's  new  flannel?  You  know  she 
likes  bright  colors,  and  that  madder! — it's  only  fit  for 
clothes  in  the  poor-house.  Why  didn't  you  get  cochineal 


82  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

for  the  red?"  She  scarcely  waited  for  a  reply;  indeed, 
didn't  expect  one. 

Aunt  Betsy  took  off  her  spectacles  and  wiped  them 
carefully  while  Grandmother  continued : 

"If  srie  must  wear  a  home-made  cloth  dress  it  should 
be  as  pretty  as  possible.  Her  gold  beads  I  brought  from 
Philadelphia  don't  show  off  well  top  of  a  homely  dress." 

"Achsah  and  I  talked  it  over  and  we  thought  a  golden 
brown  would  be  nice  for  the  main  color."  But  Grand- 
mother, full  of  her  subject,  could  wait  for  no  more. 

"Achsah,  a  new  delaine  dress  from  the  Brick  Store 
would  look  well  on  Jennet.  There  is  a  small  flowered 
pattern  that  would  look  especially  well.  By  the  way, 
<:id  you  see  Tommy  Tuthill's  new  wife  at  the  oyster 
supper?  She  wore  a  very  handsome  Paremetta  dress 
with  big  red  and  yellow  figures  on  a  brown  background, 
and  they  said  she  wore  a  gold  chain  around  her  neck 
with  something  on  it  in  a  little  pocket — a  watch,  I  sup- 
pose. I  saw  them  worn  when  I  was  in  New  York  City." 

"Probably  a  gift  from  Mr.  Tuthill,"  said  Adeline. 
"But,  Achsah,  how  did  you  like  her?" 

"I  think  she  will  be  a  great  help  in  our  society.  She's 
from  Massachusetts  and  no  doubt  capable." 

"But  do  you  think  she'll  be  good  to  Hester?"  asked 
Grandmother. 

"Of  course  she  will,  Hester's  such  a  nice  little  girl, 
and  I'm  glad  she's  to  have  a  mother  at  last." 

"Achsah,  are  you  going  to  get  Jennet  a  new  store 
''ress?"  pursued  Grandmother,  not  to  be  shaken  from 
her  purpose.  "Mathew  can  afford  it,  and  you  ought  to 
dress  her  decently." 

"I  don't  want  her  to  be  vain  and  she's  dressed  as  well 
as  the  children  of  our  neighbors  now.  I  don't  want  her 
to  think  herself  better  than  her  playmates  even  if  her 
father  can  afford  it." 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  83 

"She'll  look  like  Hagar  in  a  dress  made  from  that  new 
flannel !  Yes,  like  Hagar  in  the  wilderness !"  and  the 
old  lady  gathered  up  her  work  and  started  for  her  own 
rooms.  The  hall-door  slammed  hard,  but  as  she  was 
deaf,  perhaps  she  didn't  know. 

"Tell  about  the  party  you  went  to  last  night,"  asked 
my  mother. 

"Oh,  it  wasn't  anything  much — only  those  five  girls 
from  Greene.  They  were  invited  because  Jo  King  is 
having  one  of  his  attacks  and  it's  Sally  Jenks  from 
Greene  this  time.  But  the  funny  thing  was  that  every 
one  of  them  had  a  piece  of  black  court  plaster  some- 
where on  her  face  or  neck." 

"Why,  dear  me,  they  couldn't  all  have  had  a  burn  or 
pimple?" 

"Gals,  gals,"  warned  Aunt  Betsy,  "if  you  would  have 
friends,  you  must  show  yourselves  friendly." 

"That's  all  right,  Aunt  Betsy,  they're  in  fashion  and 
we're  out.  I  suppose  they  think  it  makes  their  com- 
plexion white  by  contrast;  or  else  it  might  be  to  bring 
out  a  dimple.  All  our  girls  noticed  it  and  talked  about 
it.  Oh,  yes,  and  when  they  were  taking  off  their  things 
in  the  spare  room  they  began  bragging  over  their  petti- 
coats. One  had  on  six  and  another  nine — starched  stiff 
as  anything;  I  suppose  another  would  have  had  at  least 
thirteen  if  supper  hadn't  been  ready  just  then.  The 
supper  was  fine,  but  I  came  home  early,  so  I  can't  tell 
much  about  it." 

"Alanson  not  being  there,  I  suppose  it  was  dull.  Jen- 
net, run  and  see  what  time  it  is." 

"Shall  I  go  to  the  south  door-step  and  look  at  the 
noon-mark  ?" 

"Bless  the  child!  A  noon-mark  is  for  noon.  No,  go 
look  at  thp  ^lock  •  it  must  be  nearly  time  for  supper. 


84  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

By  the  way,  Adeline,  what  is  that  all  wrapped  up  in 
tissue  paper  on  your  bureau  ?" 

"I'll  let  you  see,"  and  leaving  the  room  she  came  back 
in  a  few  minutes  bringing  a  fan  sparkling  with  a  thou- 
sand silver  spangles.  The  sticks  were  of  carved  ivory  and 
the  fan  itself  unfolded  a  garden  scene  where  gayly 
dressed  ladies  were  dancing  under  tall  trees  lost  to 
everything  but  love  and  pleasure — it  might  well  have 
come  from  the  hand  of  Watteau. 

"Alanson !  Alanson !"  cried  everybody.  "Did  it  come 
from  New  Orleans?" 

The  owner's  cheeks  flushed. 

Grandmother  now  came  back  with  a  skein  of  yarn  for 
some  one  to  hold.  "Here,  Jennet,  you  aren't  doing  any- 
thing," and  then  she  spied  the  fan. 

"Where  did  that  come  from?  How  beautiful!  How 
perfect!"  and  her  voice  took  on  the  softened  tone  it  al- 
ways had  when  sfie  handled  exquisite  things.  She  held 
it,  admired  it,  stroked  it  softly  with  a  light  hand,  and 
said,  "When  you  refused  young  Merchant's  invitation  to 
the  Donation  party  at  Platter,  I  said  to  Betsy,  'She'll  have 
to  look  out  or  she'll  go  through  the  woods  and  take  up 
with  a  crooked  stick  at  last,'  but  I  see  it's  all  right,  and 
I'm  glad  of  it.  Alanson  is  a  fine  young  man  with  a 
good  business  head,  and  you'll  make  him  a  sensible  wife. 
But  see  here,  Jennet,  Time's  a  headstrong  hoss' — Where 
are  you,  child?" 

Holding  the  yarn  for  Aunt  Betsy  was  merely  to  stand 
up,  stretch  out  your  arms,  -and  the  yarn  would  run  off 
smooth  and  easy.  But  it  was  different  when  Grand- 
mother wound  the  ball.  The  threads  would  catch  to- 
gether, then  a  quick  shake  of  the  skein  that  would 
straighten  things  out  for  a  moment;  then  a  second  and 
third  knot  with  more  and  more  violent  jerks  until  it  was 
all  in  a  snarl.  She  would  pick  away  at  it  patiently  at 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  85 

first,  then  pull  angrily  and  snap  the  skein,  all  to  no  pur- 
pose. And  when  she  put  the  ball  between  the  threads  the 
mix-up  only  got  worse  till  the  snarl  crept  into  her  tem- 
per. Looking  out  of  the  window  just  then  she  saw  Jo 
King  riding  by. 

"What  a  mean  thing  he  is  to  be  riding  in  a  sulky!" 
and  she  gave  another  vigorous  pull.  "I  must  say  a  young 
man  never  looks  so  well  as  with  a  handsome  young  lady 
by  his  side." 

"Don't  be  hard  on  him,"  laughed  Adeline,  "he'd  be 
glad  enough  to  have  Sallie  Jenks." 

(3)    A   VISIT  TO   AUNTIE  DWIGHT's. 

IN  the  long  summer  evenings,  when  the  birds  were 
still  and  the  insects,  and  there  was  only  the  croak  of 
the  frogs  in  the  marsh  beyond  the  orchard,  we  used  to 
gather  about  the  front  door,  sitting  on  the  two  stone  steps 
or  on  chairs  under  the  trees,  my  father  in  his  shirt 
sleeves  after  the  hard  day.  This  was  the  time  for  talk 
and  jest  and  neighborhood  news. 

Then  I  would  run  after  fireflies,  or  hide  among  tne 
shrubbery,  or  scurrying  through  the  billowy  tops  of  the 
may-weed  make  believe  I  was  some  storm-tossed  sailor 
swimming  for  my  life.  My  mother's  call,  "Jennet,  come 
in  the  house,"  was  the  shoal  on  which  my  pleasure  boat 
nightly  came  to  grief,  for  even  if  some  one  did  read 
me  to  sleep  it  wouldn't  be  with  the  Scottish  Chiefs  or 
Robinson  Crusoe,  but  something  about  Madame  Guyon, 
or  the  Diary  of  Hester  Ann  Rogers. 

Occasionally  the  dread  hour  was  put  off.  An  errand 
would  take  my  mother  to  the  house  next  below,  and  she 
usually  let  me  go  along.  I  sat  very  still  while  they  dis- 
cussed candle-dipping,  or  the  pattern-stripe  in  a  wool 
carpet  Auntie  Dwight  was  going  to  weave.  Then  some- 
times there  would  be  a  glass  of  root  beer  brewed  for  a 


86  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

summer  tonic,  or  a  basket  of  ripe  apples,  for  hers 
ripened  sooner  than  ours.  But  even  this  conversation, 
full  of  interest  as  it  was,  couldn't  keep  my  head  from 
falling  into  my  mother's  lap,  where  I  was  soon  fast 
asleep. 

Then  the  shaking!  and  the  words,  "Wake  up!  Wake 
up!"  and  the  dragging  of  unwilling  feet  homeward — 
poor  Madame  Guyon  seemed  preferable  to  that. 

Auntie  Dwight  was  a  short  thin  little  body  in  a  calico 
dress,  with  a  cape  of  the  same  and  a  bit  of  white  around 
her  neck.  Her  grey  hair  was  pulled  back  tightly  under 
a  close  fitting  cap,  and  her  pale  blue  eyes  were  sunk 
in  wrinkles.  Her  voice  was  far  away,  as  if  it  had  been 
beaten  about  by  the  wind  before  reaching  you,  and  her 
hands  were  hard  and  furrowed  and  ugly  with  keeping 
her  house,  and  working  day  in  and  day  out  at  the  loom 
weaving  rag  carpets  for  the  neighbors. 

Sometimes  in  the  afternoon  I  was  allowed  to  go  by 
myself  and  stay  to  supper  with  her.  I  carried  my  blocks 
of  calico  to  sew  over  and  over,  and  when  I  got  to  work 
Auntie  Dwight  would  unroll  her  bundle  to  show  me 
pieces  of  'LowizieV  and  'LavinieV  dresses  they  had 
when  they  were  little,  and  give  me  a  sample  of  every- 
thing to  carry  home,  and  there  would  be  doughnuts  or 
cookies  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  and  a  whispered 
promise  of  tea  later,  as  if  the  forbidden  thing  might  be 
heard  in  the  kitchen  at  the  top  of  the  hill.  When  prepa- 
rations for  supper  began  I  ran  out  to  play  in  the  running 
brook  at  the  back  door,  to  make  waterfalls,  and  ponds, 
or  a  great  canal  like  the  one  Grandmother  went  on  by 
packet  from  Utica  to  New  York. 

There  was  a  low  place  at  the  foot  of  a  sandy  hill 
where  the  sweet  flags  grew  very  thick.  When  other 
things  failed  I  tip-toed  on  the  clots  of  marsh-grass  while 
the  cold  mud  oozed  through  the  laces  of  my  shoes,  to 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  87 

pull  up  the  roots  and  lay  them  in  a  little  basket  to  be 
preserved  in  sugar  when  I  got  home.  One  day  I  found 
a  trough  leading  the  water  from  the  brook  over  to  the 
sand-bank  above  the  swamp.  Days  passed,  the  little 
stream  never  tired  of  its  work,  and  finally  the  hill  was 
half  gone  and  the  low  place  with  its  sweet  flags  and 
marsh-grass  was  a  level  meadow. 

Uncle  Joseph  was  big  and  fat.  He  had  a  little  rim 
of  hair  near  his  neck,  but  the  rest  of  his  head  was  bare 
as  a  turnip.  He  was  Auntie's  husband  and  was  always 
sitting  by  the  stove  in  winter.  He  didn't  work  any  more 
and  spent  hour  after  hour  just  whittling.  Looking  out 
the  kitchen  window  you  could  see  his  great  dark  empty 
distillery  rotting  away  in  silence. 

I  was  glad  when  he  was  not  in  the  house,  for  it  was 
always — 

"Is  that  little  black  nigger  I  saw  at  your  house  your 
brother?"  or,  "Does  your  grandmother  wash  your  nose 
up  or  down?"  and  then  he  would  laugh  as  if  it  were 
great  sport,  when  my  face  reddened  or  my  lips  drew 
together  in  a  pout. 

I  always  wanted  to  ask  why  Auntie  should  be  working 
all  day — she  was  as  old  as  he.  But  there  he  sat  year 
after  year  whittling  his  stick,  or  pulling  out  the  stove- 
hearth  to  spit.  Of  course  it  is  nice  not  to  do  anything — 
but  why  must  Auntie  work  so  hard?  Indeed,  I  was  so 
full  of  why's  that  Uncle  George  called  out  whenever 
he  saw  me,  "Why,  why,  why,  here's  little  Miss  Why- 
why  !" 

When  I  came  to  go  home,  Auntie  Dwight  would  pick 
a  handful  of  her  spicey  pinks  and  red  roses  that  cov- 
ered the  hill  behind  the  distillery.  Her  red  roses  running 
up  the  slope  and  nodding  in  the  wind  against  the  blue 
sky — I'm  afraid  I  would  have  stolen  them  if  I  could. 


CHAPTER  X. 
UNCLE  BEN. 

"Now,  Jennet,"  said  her  mother,  one  bright  after- 
noon, "your  father  and  grandmother  and  I  are  going  to 
a  wedding  over  at  Solon,  and  you  will  stay  with  Aunt 
Betsy,  and  she'll  do  something  to  make  you  have  a  good 
time." 

"Oh,  I  want  to  go." 

"It's  a  long  way  over  to  Gen.  Northway's,  and  we'll 
be  late  getting  home,  and  beside  little  girls  never  go  to 
weddings." 

"Can't  I  go  to  Aunt  Adeline's  if  she  has  one,  and  it's 
here?" 

"Of  course,  child,  but  that's  in  the  family.  Run  along 
now — Aunt  Betsy  knows  what  you  like." 

Jennet  stood  at  the  gate  and  watched  them  ride  away. 
They  grew  smaller  and  smaller,  and  finally  the  carriage 
was  gone  behind  the  elm  trees  that  stand  by  the  water- 
ing-trough at  the  bend  in  the  road.  Then  she  ran  to 
find  her  best  playmate. 

"They're  gone,  Aunt  Betsy;  what  can  we  do?" 

"If  it  was  winter  and  we  had  a  fire  we  could  sugar 
off.  Let's  see — shall  we  go  down  by  the  river  and  gather 
herbs?  I  haven't  been  out  yet  and  it's  time  for  hoar- 
hound  and  lobelia  and  mullein. 

"Oh,  good!  and  there  will  be  flowers  too — red  balm 
and  speckled  field-lilies.  I'm  going  to  learn  to  doctor 
folks  too,  can't  I  ?" 

"Yes,  when  you're  bigger.  It's  a  good  thing  to  know 
that  sumach  buds  are  best  for  sore  throat,  wintergreen 
for  rheumatism,  and  lobelia  for  a  'puke'  in  case  of 
poison." 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  89 

"You'll  teach  me,  won't  you?  and  when  people  are 
sick  I'll  give  them  catnip  tea  so  hot  it'll  bite,  and  tell 
'em  to  drink  it  right  down.  And  boneset — they  must 
swallow  that  and  not  spit  it  out  the  way  Joseph  does." 

By  this  time  the  two  were  well  on  their  way,  and  soon 
found  themselves  in  the  cool  shade  on  the  river  bank. 
Everywhere  was  the  faint  odor  of  ferns,  mandrakes,  and 
berries,  and  the  rustle  of  leaves  in  the  trees.  Jennet 
threw  back  her  yellow  sunbonnet  and  Aunt  Betsy  dropped 
the  knife  and  basket  while  they  listened  to  the  ceaseless 
flow  of  the  stream  and  the  hum  of  contented  insects, 
and  admired  the  glittering  gold  on  the  butterfly's  wing. 
The  old  lady  fell  into  a  revery — was  she  thinking  of  the 
past  and  its  failures?  The  placid  face  was  unruffled. 

Jennet,  who  was  never  still  long  at  a  time,  was  soon 
running  toward  the  fence,  where  the  choke-cherries  were 
turning  from  green  to  red. 

"Be  careful,  be  careful !— there's  poison-ivy  growing 
there,"  and  Aunt  Betsy  turned  to  the  present  again  with- 
out a  sigh. 

"I  don't  want  to  get  that.  My,  didn't  Joseph  look 
awful?  His  face  was  just  like  the  moon,  only  much 
redder,  and  his  eyes  nothing  but  slits." 

"Come  on  and  help  me  pick  the  catnip.  It's  for  ba- 
bies; makes  them  feel  easy  and  go  to  sleep." 

"How  did  it  get  such  a  funny  name,  Aunt  Betsy?" 

"Because  cats  like  it,  I  guess.  Why,  I  don't  believe 
a  cat's  half  so  pleased  with  a  mouse  as  with  catnip." 

"Then  the  angels  called  it  that  so  we'd  know,  didn't 
they?  And  oh,  Aunt  Betsy,  wasn't  it  dreadful  that  all 
five  of  Aunt  Mary  Jane's  kittens  died  at  once?"  and  Jen- 
net's face  puckered  at  the  memory. 

"See  here,"  called  Aunt  Betsy,  pushing  away  the  dirt 
from  some  fine  thread-like  roots  yellow  as  gold,  which 
she  laid  carefully  in  the  basket,  "that's  gold-thread  and 


90 

a  baby  medicine  too.  And  that  clump  of  elder  is  all 
in  a  blow;  break  off  those  big  heads,  and  what  is  left 
will  grow  into  berries  good  for  chills  and  fever  and 
erysipelas." 

"I  can't  reach  them — they're  too  high.  How  pretty 
and  white  they  are!" 

"I  dry  these  blossoms,"  said  Aunt  Betsy,  getting  her 
arms  full,  "and  make  them  into  tea  to  cure  the  baby's 
cold.  And  there,"  pointing  a  little  distance  away,  "is  a 
bunch  of  hoarhound.  Pick  that." 

"Is  that  for  hoarhound  candy?  That's  the  medicine  I 
like !" 

"There,  you've  had  a  long  lesson.  In  spring  we  can 
gather  canker  root,  bathblows,  and  Indian  turnip.  Your 
father  will  bring  in  the  cherry  bark  and  sassafras.  Sar- 
saparilla  and  narrow-leaf  dock  grow  in  another  place, 
and  we  can  get  peppermint  and  spearmint  in  the  lane 
where  the  cows  go  to  pasture." 

"Let's  sit  down  and  look  at  Uncle  Ben.  I  think  he 
must  be  a  mountain,  don't  you?  Stephen  laughed  at  me 
when  I  said  so  to  him,  but  I  wish  I  could  go  to  the  top 
the  way  Uncle  Tucker  did,  and  it  spit  fire  and  stones — 
do  you  remember,  Aunt  Betsy?  And  there  was  a  hole  in 
the  top  and  he  went  down  it  three  hundred  feet!  My! 
I  don't  suppose  there's  a  hole  in  the  top  of  Uncle  Ben, 
do  you,  Aunt  Betsy?  See  the  clouds  all  rolled  up  in  a 
bunch  behind  it.  They're  so  soft  and  easy,  would  it  be 
like  silk  or  the  wool  on  my  lamb's  back?  I'd  like  to 
stick  my  fingers  in  them." 

"The  sky  would  be  just  as  far  away  up  there  as  it  is 
down  here." 

"Stephen  told  me  a  riddle,  I  guess  it's  about  that  tree 
on  the  tiptop  of  the  hill.  Now  listen ;  this  is  it : 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  91 

"  'Riddle  come,  riddle  come  right, 
Where  was  I  last  Friday  night? 
The  winds  did  blow, 
The  cocks  did  crow, 
The  boughs  did  shake, 
And  I  saw  the  hole  the  Fox  did  make.' 

He  said  Fox  was  the  man's  name,  and  they  told  Peter 
to  meet  them  under  the  tree  at  ten  o'clock  at  night,  but 
Peter  went  at  eight  o'clock  and  got  up  in  the  tree.  By 
and  by  the  Foxes  came,  and  while  they  dug  a  big  hole 
they  talked  how  they  were  going  to  put  Peter  in  it.  And 
they  waited  and  waited,  and  never  found  Peter  in  the 
tree.  And  after  the  Foxes  went  home  Peter  went  too. 
I  think  that's  the  tree  on  top  of  the  hill.  I  guess  I  don't 
want  to  go  there.  Maybe  the  Foxes  are  there  now." 

"Sho!  Sho!"  said  Aunt  Betsy,  "there's  no  truth  in 
that  story."  But  Jennet  told  every  child  that  came  to 
see  her  how  the  Foxes  were  under  the  tree  on  the  hill. 
They  were  quite  close  to  the  house  now,  and  forgetting 
for  the  moment  Uncle  Ben  and  his  lonely  grave,  Jennet 
rattled  on : 

"I  went  up  the  hill  as  far  as  the  pasture  with  Joseph 
last  night  to  drive  the  cows  home,  and  there  were  mounds 
up  there,  Aunt  Betsy.  I  didn't  step  on  them- — father 
says  they're  just  where  the  trees  have  blown  over,  but 
Joseph  says  they're  Indian  graves,  and  I  guess  they  are. 
He  said  a  man  stood  by  one  grave  and  stamped  his  foot 
hard  and  called  out  three  times :  "What  killed  you,  poor 
Indian?"  and  the  Indian  said,  "Nothing  at  all."  Now, 
don't  you  think  they're  Indian  graves? 

"And  Aunt  Betsy,  Uncle  Ben  is  not  all  good  either." 

"Why,  child,  why?"  and  the  faded  blue  eyes  seemed  to 
marvel,  for  her  first  thought  was  to  find  good  in  every- 
thing. 

"Don't   you   remember,"   said   Jennet,   "last   summer 


92  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

when  I  was  picking  blackberries  there  under  his  shoulder 
and  something  bit  my  foot  and  it  swelled  all  up  and  you 
called  Auntie  Dwight  to  come  over  and  see  it  and  she 
put  smart-weed  leaves  on  it  and  you  thought  it  was  a 
snake  bite?  Uncle  Ben  shouldn't  have  snakes.  I  hate 
'em." 

"Snakes,"  said  Aunt  Betsy,  "do  a  powerful  lot  of 
harm,  but  they're  God's  creatures  and  must  be  some  good, 
even  if  we  can't  see  it." 

"I  never  knew  before  that  you  liked  snakes.  I  think 
they're  horrid  wiggly,  wriggly  things.  If  I  had  seen 
the  one  that  bit  me,  I'd  have  killed  him,  yes,  killed  him 
before  I  hollered!" 

"We  shouldn't  criticise  the  works  of  God,  Jennet, 
when  we  know  so  little  about  them.  We  know  He's 
good  even  if  we  can't  understand,  and  we  shouldn't  say 
anything  He  does  or  makes  is  bad." 

"Well,  what's  the  use  of  having  the  word  'bad'  then?" 

"I  think  some  things  are  better  and  more  pleasant  than 
others,  and  it's  the  difference  that  makes  what  we  call 
bad.  Maybe  if  Adam  and  Eve  had  not  disobeyed  God 
in  the  Garden  of  Eden  all  things  would  have  been  good." 

"And  no  snakes,  Aunt  Betsy?"  queried  Jennet. 

"No  snakes,"  said  Aunt  Betsy. 

"But  the  serpent  was  there,"  said  Jennet,  "and  he  is 
a  kind  of  king  snake,  isn't  he?" 

"It's  true  he  tempted  Eve,  and  she  told  Adam  no 
harm  would  come,  and  so  they  disobeyed  God  and  that 
was  sin.  Sin  is  a  fearful  thing  and  always  brings  pun- 
ishment. So  the  serpent  was  made  to  go  on  his  belly 
ever  after  and  be  hated  of  men." 

"And  why  did  the  snake  bite  me?    Did  I  sin?" 

"Dear  little  one,  we  can't  explain  all  the  ugly  things 
that  happen,  but  we  do  know  that  God  is  good  and  our 
business  is  to  be  good,  too.  Then  by  and  by  He  will 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  93 

take  us  to  His  heavenly  home,  and  there  will  be  no 
snakes  there  nor  any  bad.  We'll  forget  all  that." 

Jennet  had  asked  all  the  questions  she  could  think  of 
for  the  moment,  and  was  satisfied.  The  two  walked  on 
in  silence  until  Aunt  Betsy,  looking  behind,  said:  "See, 
the  sun  is  setting  toward  the  west  hill ;  it  must  be  pretty 
well  on  to  six  o'clock." 

Just  then  Polly  from  the  kitchen  came  across  the  roau 
calling:  "Aunt  Betsy,  come  quick!  Stephen's  stepped  on 
a  rusty  nail!" 

So  they  hurried  to  the  house  and  with  clean  rags  and 
salt  pork  Aunt  Betsy  did  up  the  wound.  Meantime  she 
found  out  where  the  nail  was,  and  while  Stephen  was 
giving  particulars  to  an  admiring  audience  she  slipped 
away  to  the  barn,  hunted  till  she  found  the  offending 
nail  in  an  old  board  on  a  rubbish  heap,  outside  the  barn 
door.  Needless  to  say,  she  brought  it  to  the  house, 
greased  it  with  care,  wrapped  it  in  flannel,  and  laid  it 
behind  the  kitchen  stove  out  of  harm's  way. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  asked  Polly. 

"Just  taking  care  of  the  nail,  so  it  won't  do  any  more 
mischief." 

"Well,  what  next?"  laughed  Polly. 

"I  make  sure  Stephen's  foot  gets  well  and  no  lock-jaw 
set  in." 

"That's  all  bosh,"  said  Stephen,  "the  nail  did  the  harm 
when  it  went  in — I  don't  see  what  more  it  can  do." 

Aunt  Betsy  made  no  reply,  but  she  took  particular 
care  of  the  enemy  and  only  threw  it  out  when  the  foot 
was  quite  well.  Everybody  laughed  at  her  superstition, 
but  her  good  humor  was  unruffled,  and  in  her  heart  of 
hearts  she  knew  what  had  worked  the  cure. 


CHAPTER  XI. 
OLD  SAM. 

OLD  SAM  was  a  neighbor  of  ours,  broad-shouldered, 
with  coarse  hands,  face  browned  in  the  wind,  shaggy 
beard,  small  piercing  eyes,  rough-mannered,  and  given 
to  drink,  but  shrewd. 

One  Saturday  early  in  August  he  and  Giles,  a  slight 
boy  with  bronzed  hair  and  complexion,  were  mowing 
grass  in  the  ten-acre  lot  when  Uncle  George  drove  by. 

"Come  over  and  help  tomorrow,  George." 

"Can't— Sabbath." 

"I'll  give  good  wages — better'n  the  rule." 

"P'rhaps  you  can  get  Afriky  Thompson,"  suggested 
Giles. 

"Afriky  Thompson!  Not  much!  Stutters  worse'n, 
makes  more  noise'n  a  squealin'  pig  tacked  on  to  a  guinea 
hen!  I  could  mow  a  whole  field  while  I  was  makin'  up 
my  mind  to  one  o'  his  remarks." 

Uncle  George  drove  on,  and  Old  Sam  stood  looking 
after  him.  "Can't  move  'em  out'n  their  dumbfounded 
pious  tracks,  an'  me  needin'  help  the  worst  way." 

The  next  morning  he  was  early  in  the  fiel'd.  About 
ten  o'clock  he  looked  up  from  his  mowing,  resting  his 
scythe  on  the  ground,  and  raised  himself  erect — tall  as 
a  pine,  straight,  and  well  grounded.  A  carriage  was 
just  disappearing  down  the  road  in  direction  of  the 
church. 

"There  go  those  Lee  folks  again !  They  work  awful 
hard  to  keep  a  day  o'  rest  settin'  on  those  hard  benches 
mornin',  noon,  an'  night.  Good  'nough  man  if  he  didn't 
tag  to  meetin'  all  the  time.  His  grass  needs  cuttin'  bad's 
mine  an'  I'll  get  the  biggest  part  o'  the  medder  in  today 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  95 

if  'tis  Sunday,  an'  we'll  see  whose  hay  holds  out  longest 
in  the  spring." 

"The  Deacon'll  do,"  ventured  Giles.  "If  he  don't 
drink,  he's  never  loud  or  silly,  an'  he's  ready  'nough  to 
<To  the  right  thing.  You  aint  forgot,  hev  you,  the  day 
he  stopped  plowin'  to  go  over  to  those  mis'ble  good-for- 
nothing  Roodys'  an'  move  'em  to  Podunk,  where  they 
lied  relations  to  look  out  fer  'em?" 

"Thet's  you,  Giles,  allus  standin'  up  fer  the  off  hoss. 
But  he's  one  o'  them  Washin'tonian  fellers  that's  signed 
the  pledge,  darn  'em!  I'd  like  to  see  old  Bildad  Benson 
back  on  thet  farm.  We'd  see  doin's !  My !  wan't  he 
jolly!  take  a  glass  any  time  o'  day.  I  never  could  see 
'twas  so  much  agin  him  as  folks  make  out,  kickin'  down 
a  door  or  two.  They  was  his  own  doors,  wan't  they?" 

"It  aint  the  same  farm  'twas  in  Old  Bildad's  day,  an' 
1  for  one  am  jes'  as  well  satisfied  not  to  hev  his  cattle 
chasin'  round  in  our  crops  'cause  he  can't  keep  his  fences 
up  fer  trailin'  to  the  Lion's  Head." 

"Go  'long  'ith  your  silly  talk !  You  never  did  like 
Bildad.  But  we'll  see,  we'll  see.  They  say  he's  goin'  to 
hev  a  barn  raisin'  'fore  long,  an'  I'd  like  to  know  how 
he  kin  do  thet  'thout  a  social  glass.  He  can't.  The  men 
won't  stand  sech  cussed  mean  ways,  you  see  if  they  do." 

The  time  of  the  barn-raising  came.  Preparations 
were  on  foot  early  the  day  before.  Ledyard  hauled  in 
the  logs,  split  them  fine,  piled  the  brick  oven  full,  and 
started  the  fire.  When  all  was  burned  to  coals,  they 
were  carefully  swept  out,  and  bread,  pie,  mother  cake, 
and  training  gingerbread  pushed  in.  The  door  was  shut, 
and  when  it  was  opened  again,  an  hour  of  two  later, 
everything  was  done  to  a  turn. 

In  the  midst  of  these  preparations  came  Uncle  Jo, 
the  distiller. 


96  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

"Ye  have  a  raisin'  tomorrow,  don't  ye,  Deacon  ?  How 
much  whiskey  ye  goin'  to  need?  I've  an  extry  fine  lot 
I  can  let  ye  hev  cheap,  seein'  it's  you  an'  ye  don't 
patronize  very  often." 

"I  don't  drink  whiskey  myself,  Uncle  Jo,  for  what  I 
think  are  good  reasons,  and  I'll  not  furnish  it  to  anyone 
else." 

"But  the  men  are  expectin'  it.  Things  may  not  be  so 
pleasant  if  ye  disappint  'em.  I'd  go  kind  o'  slow  if  I 
was  you." 

"I'll  not  have  it,  Uncle  Jo,  if  the  barn  is  never  raised," 
and  Uncle  Jo  understood. 

They  gathered  in  early  from  the  hills,  men  and  boys 
too,  half-savage,  envious  of  danger,  besieging  the  sun- 
r'ial,  heart  in  mouth  if  ever  the  kitchen  door  was  opened. 
The  sides  were  already  nailed  together.  A  loud  'he-ho-he' 
from  the  master-carpenter,  each  man  bends  his  back 
to  the  lift  and  strains  his  utmost.  Little  by  little,  waver- 
ing and  uncertain,  the  beams  and  joists  mount  in  the 
air  till  the  frame  is  upright;  then  a  man  to  scale  the 
dizzy  top  and  spike  together  the  four  sides.  A  breathless 
moment — some  one  overtops  the  crowd — the  carpenter 
— crawling  up  the  timbers,  unsteady,  shaken  by  the  wind 
— lost  if  once  his  nerve  should  falter — a  pause — the  firm 
even  stroke  of  the  hammer — a  loud  hurrah. 

Meantime  in  the  house,  hurry  and  scurry.  Gallons  of 
coffee,  women  here,  women  there.  It  is  "Run  along, 
Jennet,"  "Run  along,  Jennet,"  wherever  she  turns. 
Women  spreading  bread,  women  frosting  cake,  women 
cutting  pies,  women  skimming  cream,  women  piling  plat- 
ters with  cold  chicken,  women  everywhere. 

The  men  wash  their  sweaty  faces  at  the  bench  by 
the  well  and 'sit  around  under  the  trees  or  on  piles  of 
lumber  ready  for  lunch.  Then  the  kitchen  door  opens 
and  the  procession  begins  —  steaming  coffee,  biscuits, 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  97 

meat,  gingerbread,  cake,  cheese,  pie,  pickles — the  house 
seems  bursting  with  good  things. 

"Stingy  cuss!"  whispers  Sam  Dillenbeck,  "all  this 
sweatin'  an'  he  aint  goin'  to  give  us  nothin'  to  drink." 

"Yes,  yes,"  squeaks  old  Johnnie  Peele  in  his  high- 
pitched  voice,  "he's  what  I  call  a  proper  mean  man." 

Sly  jokes  pass  from  ear  to  ear — brains  distend  along 
with  stomachs. 

"Good  'nough  lunch,"  drawls  Uncle  Jo,  "but  it's  mean 
principles  to  make  a  milk-sop  o'  everyone  else  'cause 
you're  one  yourself.  It's  agin  the  sperit  o'  this  yer  gov- 
ment,  which  same  agrees  to  let  every  man  be  born  free 
an'  ekal  an'  get  his  livin'  out'n  the  rest.  Now  you  tell 
me  what  I'm  gettin'  out'n  this  yer  Deacon." 

"I  call  this  good  eatin',  aint  none  o'  you  used  to  bet- 
ter," spoke  up  Gershom  Bates,  "an'  they'll  be  no  broken 
heads  after  it  neither.  I  say  it's  a  good  sensible  lunch, 
an'  as  fer  gettin'  a  livin'  if  they  aint  any  demand  fer  yer 
stuff,  Uncle  Jo,  you'll  hev  to  get  to  work  diggin'  same's 
the  rest  o'  us." 

"Oh,  I  aint  goin'  to  the  poor  -  house  yet,"  growled 
Uncle  Jo. 

Old  Sam  was  not  always  so  crusty.  He  was  very 
fond  of  boys,  and  liked  nothing  better  than  drawing 
them  into  an  argument.  On  his  way  home  from  the  barn- 
raising  he  saw  two  boys  sitting  on  a  log  comparing 
jack-knives. 

"Heigho !  What  you  fellers  doin'  ?  Don't  you  hev  to 
go  home  an'  fetch  in  the  cows?" 

"Yes,  but  if  we  aint  there,  mother'll  have  to  send 
Annice." 

"Oh,  I  see ;  you're  shirks." 

"If  we  go  every  night,  why  shouldn't  Annice  just 
once  ?" 


98  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

"You  seem  to  know  pretty  well  what'll  be  done  if 
you  aint  there.  Strikes  me  ye  must've  done  it  before. 
A  shirk,  h'm !  Let's  have  a  look  at  ye.  I  see,  it's  cause 
ye've  been  at  the  Deacon's  all  day.  He's  a  shirk,  aint 
he?  Got  a  nice  big  house  an'  lots  o'  barns.  Don't  work 
a  bit  on  Sundays,  jes  gets  up  his  hosses  an'  his  nice  new 
double  carriage,  an'  rides  away  to  meetin5  an'  sits  there 
all  day  doin'  nothin' — that's  what  I  call  a  shirk." 

"Oh,  but  that's  not  shirking.  You  mustn't  work  on 
Sunday.  That's  for  Sunday-school,  an'  standin'  round 
talkin'  in  the  church-yard,  an'  wearin'  your  best  clothes. 
Why  don't  you  go  to  church?" 

"Wall,  I'll  see;  when  silver  dollars  get  rollin'  up 
hill.  An'  how  does  Annice  like  your  bein'  shirks?" 

"She  don't  do  anything  all  afternoon  but  sit  out  in 
the  cool  shade  and  knit  an'  patch,  and  it  won't  hurt  her 
to  get  the  cows  one  night." 

"And — who  did  ye  say  she  was  knittin'  fer?" 

The  boys  looked  at  each  other,  but  said  nothing. 

"Was  it  your  father  taught  you  to  be  shirks?  I  sup- 
pose he  sits  in  the  cool  shade  of  a  tree  while  you  boys 
hoe  the  corn — or  he  sets  you  to  pickin'  stun  off  the  east 
lot.  He  goes  to  the  Brick  Store  an'  sets  round  in  a 
chair  or  holds  down  the  cover  to  a  cracker-bar'l  till  you 
get  the  job  done,  eh?" 

"No,  he  don't.  He  works  faster'n  any  man  on  the 
north  road." 

"Well,  I  don't  see  how  you  got  the  habit  then.  But 
you're  bright  boys,  smarter'n  any  o'  Tom  Roody's.  All 
seven  o'  them  goes  to  the  poor-house  winters  an'  comes 
back  to  their  shanty  summers.  When  you  get  to  runnin- 
things  you'll  stay  at  the  county-house  all  the  time  to  git 
red  o'  goin'  fer  the  cows  an'  milkin',  won't  ye?  Let's 
see,  ef  ye've  started  out  to  be  shirks  ye'll  need  a  little 
help — that's  what  shirks  are  allus  wantin',"  and  pulling 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  99 

out  his  wallet,  he  handed  each  of  the  boys  a  Spanish 
two-shilling  piece.  "Now,  you  kin  grow  dollars  out'n 
these  here  shillin's  ef  ye  plant  'em  right,  an'  not  drive 
the  cows  neither,  provided  ye  get  Annice  to  do  yer 
work." 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Tom,  turning  his  shilling 
over  to  read  the  date — 1835. 

"Well,  I'll  be  off.  Next  time  I  see  you  boys  let  me 
know  how  yer  father  an'  mother  an'  Annice  like  yer 
bein'  shirks." 

Two  shillings  was  a  large  gift  in  the  eyes  of  the. 
boys,  but  they  hadn't  really  relished  what  the  old  man 
said. 

The  winter  that  followed  the  barn-raising  was  slow, 
and  the  hay-mows  grew  bare  long  before  the  grass  came. 
Old  Sam  fed  sparingly,  and  his  cattle  showed  lean  sides 
and  bare  bones.  At  last  he  saw  he  must  buy  hay,  and  he 
thought  of  that  Sunday  morning  in  summer  when  he 
had  seen  the  Deacon  driving  by  to  church,  for  the  Deacon 
was  the  only  one  who  had  hay  to  sell. 

"Giles,"  he  said,  just  thinking  aloud,  "I  guess  those 
Lees  are  pretty  nigh  right  about  workin'  on  Sundays." 

That  was  the  winter  his  wife  died,  and  all  the  tender- 
ness that  rested  under  the  rough  exterior  was  stirred  to 
its  depths.  Nothing  more  he  could  do — she  was  gone. 
How  desolate  the  house  was !  Into  the  loneliness  of  his 
grief  stole  the  thought  of  one  last  best  service  —  the 
world  should  acknowledge  her  worth  long  after  he  was 
dead  and  forgotten.  Evening  after  evening,  pencil  in 
hand,  he  studied  over  a  bit  of  paper.  At  last  the  epi- 
taph was  ready,  and  the  tallest,  whitest  stone  in  the 
cemetery  at  Ravenna  bears  to  this  day  the  inscription 
which  still,  when  almost  a  century  has  passed,  draws  more 
visitors  to  her  grave  than  to  any  other  in  the  county. 


100  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

"Ann  Dillenbeck  was  her  name, 
America  was  her  nation, 
Ravenna  was  her  dwelling-place, 
And  Jesus  Christ  was  her  salvation. 

Now  she's  dead  and  in  her  grave, 
And  all  her  bones  are  rotten. 
When  this  you  see 
Let  her  remembered  be 
And  never  be  forgotten. 

The  rose  is  red,  the  grass  is  green, 
And  days  are  past  which  she  has  seen. 
In  the  days  to  come  we'll  all  remember 
Jesus  Christ  her  Great  Redeemer." 


CHAPTER  XII. 
THE  MITE  SOCIETY. 

THE  Mite  Society  was  meeting  with  Mrs.  Cephas  King. 
The  sewing  and  knitting  dealt  out  and  all  busy,  the 
president  rose  to  go  through  the  usual  form. 
"What  is  to  come  before  the  society  today?" 
"I  went  to  Maj.  Berry's  of  an  errand  last  week," 
spoke  up  Amelia  Ayr,  "and  his  wife  sat  before  the  fire 
without  a  cap.  She  looked  so  strange  I  couldn't  help 
asking  if  she'd  forgotten  to  put  it  on.  'No,'  she  said, 
'but  I've  only  got  one,  and  if  I  put  that  on  here  I 
haven't  anything  for  when  I  go  out.  I'm  afraid  of  tak- 
ing cold,  but  I'm  getting  so  I  really  don't  know  how 
to  make  one.'  I  thought  we  ought  to  look  after  that; 
she  hasn't  any  children." 

"I'll  give  the  muslin  and  lace  for  two,"  said  Grand- 
mother Lee. 

"And  who'll  c!o  the  work?"  asked  the  president. 
"I  will,  unless  some  one  else  wants  to,"  said  Mary 
Tolman,  the  village  milliner. 

"My  husband  went  only  yesterday  to  Maj.  Berry's 
shop,"  said  Mrs.  Deacon  Lee,  "to  get  Jennet's  foot 
measured  for  a  pair  of  horsehide  shoes.  You  know  he 
makes  fine  shoes  better  than  any  one  else.  Jennet  had 
her  foot  on  the  paper  and  he  had  marked  the  size  of  her 
sole  with  the  pencil,  when  he  fell  back  suddenly  and 
almost  tumbled  from  the  bench.  Yes,  we'll  have  to 
help  them,  for  they  can't  help  themselves  much  longer." 
"Did  he  get  over  it  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Tewanty. 
"Yes,  he  took  a  little  wine  and  was  soon  himself 
again,  but  he  said  he'd  felt  strange  for  two  days.  When 


102  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

he  came  to,  he  picked  up  his  awl  and  said,  holding  it 
out :  'This  awl  has  been  all-in-all  to  me  for  ten  years. 
It  has  paid  my  rent,  bought  our  food,  kept  us  warm, 
paid  our  tithes,  and  it's  good  to  do  it's  work  for  ten 
years  more,  but  it's  the  hand  that  holds  it  fails.'  He'll 
be  dropping  off  suddenly  some  of  these  days." 

"Just  think — he  was  all  through  the  war  of  eighteen- 
twelve." 

"Why  doesn't  he  get  a  pension,  I'd  like  to  know?" 

"Oh,  he's  been  able  to  earn  a  living,  such  as  it  was,  at 
the  shoemaker's  bench." 

"I  believe  the  Major  says  he  didn't  go  to  the  war  for 
a  pension,  but  to  save  his  country,"  commented  Grand- 
mother. 

"The  country  owes  him  a  pension,  anyway,  and 
Judge  Miles  is  the  one  to  see  about  it.  Mrs.  Miles,  you 
speak  to  your  husband  about  it.  The  idea  of  letting 
such  a  man  come  to  charity !" 

"Suppose  at  the  next  meeting  we  each  bring  eatables 
and  fill  a  big  basket  or  a  barrel,  and  send  it  up  with 
the  caps,"  suggested  the  president,  whereupon  was  a 
general  cry  of  "Good !  Good  !" 

"We  have  plenty  of  yarn  on  hand,"  she  went  on, 
"taken  in  dues.  We  can't  get  any  money  out  of  it  unless 
it's  knit  into  socks.  Who's  willing  to  do  some  of  that 
work  at  home?" 

"You  ought  to  take  half  a  dozen,  Amelia  Ayr,"  said 
Julia  Titus ;  "everyone  says  you  knit  a  sock  in  one  even- 
ing. How  do  you  do  it?" 

"That's  stretching  it.  I  have  done  it,  but  it  was  a  long 
evening,  and  it  was  under  pressure." 

"I  heard  Mother  Boyd  went  to  Albany  last  week," 
said  Polly  Bush,  "to  see  about  her  eyes.  Have  you 
heard,  was  it  so?" 

"Yes,  and  we  had  a  letter  last  week,  and  the  doctor 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  103 

thinks  nothing  can  be  done  to  help  her.  She'll  be  blind 
the  rest  of  her  life." 

"Then  she  won't  be  driving  to  the  village  any  more 
with  Julia !  How  does  she  bear  up  under  it  ?" 

"Is  it  cataracts  or  inflammation?" 

"She  didn't  write  particulars,  but  it's  bad  enough  any- 
way. They'll  not  be  home  for  three  weeks.  Her  hus- 
band has  bought  a  double-seated  carriage,  and  they'll 
drive  home  in  it." 

"Now  Mis'  Deacon  Lee'll  not  be  the  only  aristocrat  in 
town,"  whispered  Julia  Titus  to  Amelia  Ayr. 

"Have  any  of  you  heard  how  Dick  Robbins  got  hurt? 
His  back  is  broke,  they  say,"  and  Aunt  Polly  took  off 
her  spectacles,  wiping  them  as  you  instinctively  do  when 
you  have  a  piece  of  news  every  one  will  want  to  hear. 

"Hurt?  Dick  Robbins?  What  is  it?  I  haven't  heard. 
Hurry  up  !  Where'd  it  happen  ?  Back  broken  ?  When 
was  it?"  questions  from  all  sides,  to  which  Aunt  Polly 
nods  a  slow  assent. 

When  all  was  quiet  and  eager  and  she  had  folded  her 
work  neatly  and  straightened  her  apron,  she  began: 

"Give  me  time,  give  me  time,  an'  I'll  tell." 

"Time !"  cried  Julia  Titus — "looks's  if  you  was  taking 
it." 

"Sunday,  perhaps  you  remember  'twas  a  pleasant 
day?"  She  paused  for  remarks  or  objections,  but  as  there 
were  none  she  went  on.  "Well,  Dick  an'  a  lot  o'  other 
boys  went  butternuttin'  on  a  Sunday,  if  'twas  Sunday, 
an'  climbed  clear  to  the  top.  Seem's  if  these  boys  never 
mind  what  risk  they  take,  do  they?"  and  again  she  looked 
around  for  answer. 

"Dear  me,  what  happened?"  gasped  Grandmother. 

"The  branch  broke  an'— well,  he  fell ;  that's  what  hap- 
pened. He  fell  so's  his  back  hit  a  stone  an'  he  couldn't 
get  up.  An'  they  carried  him  home  to  his  mother.  The 


104  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

doctor  says  he'll  never  walk  again  or  even  sit  up 
straight." 

"Oh,  dear;  why  must  he  go  on  Sunday?" 

"Those  Robbinses  never  go  to  church,"  said  Julia 
Titus. 

"Si  Robbins's  always  at  the  Lion's  Head,  they  say, 
an'  you  can't  expect  children  to  know  more'n  their 
parents,  can  you?"  . 

"Well,  I  hope  it'll  be  a  lesson,"  said  Aunt  Car'line. 
"How're  your  neighbors,  Mis'  Tewanty?" 

"Who  d'ye  mean?" 

"The  Hickses,  of  course.  Somebody's  always  ailin' 
in  that  family." 

"An'  pray  why  shouldn't  they  be?"  spoke  up  Julia 
Titus.  "Did  you  ever  go  there  when  they  wan't  smellin' 
o'  opodeldoc,  fetty,  an'  onion  poultice  enough  to  knock 
you  down?" 

"I  just  wonder  why  it  is  that  house  should  be  so  af- 
flicted," exclaimed  Mrs.  Titus.  "The  Hickses  are  good 
honest  people." 

"It's  plain  enough  to  me,"  answered  Emily  Potts.  "I 
went  there  to  call  last  week  and  was  taken  in  to  see 
Rhoda.  I  could  scarcely  get  my  breath.  Shawls  and 
quilts  hung  at  the  windows  to  keep  out  the  sunlight  and 
prevent  a  breath  of  fresh  air  from  reaching  her.  I  don't 
believe  that  room  had  been  aired  for  a  month,  certainly 
not  since  Rhoda's  been  sick.  Her  mother  told  me  that 
air  and  water  are  the  worst  things  a  sick  person  can 
have." 

"Doesn't  Rhoda  ever  want  a  drink?" 

"Yes,  but  Mrs.  Hicks  says  that's  just  a  symptom  of 
her  disease." 

"And  Rhoda  isn't  well,"  broke  in  Julia,  "till  Mrs. 
Hicks  has  Hi  done  up  in  pork  and  liniment.  Mr.  Hicks 
is  the  only  one  that  keeps  well.  I  suppose  that's  because 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  105 

he's  in  the  shop  all  day  and  sitting  behind  the  stove 
at  the  Brick  Store  all  evening." 

"I  wish  you'd  stop  talking  behind  their  backs,  Julia," 
said  Aunt  Car'line,  "I  want  to  hear  Mrs.  Tewanty  tell 
how  they  are." 

"Every  word  I  said  is  the  truth  anyway,"  insisted 
Julia. 

Mrs.  Tewanty  folded  her  hands  over  her  work  and 
looked  up  smiling,  the  little  curls  on  either  side  of  her 
face  shaking  like  leaves  in  the  wind.  "I  think  the 
matter  has  been  discussed  and  settled  already,"  she 
said;  "however,  I  asked  the  'prentice  boy  when  he  came 
for  milk  this  morning,  and  he  said  Rhoda  was  able  to 
sit  up  half  an  hour." 

"Have  you  been  over  an'  offered  to  set  up  with  her, 
Mrs.  Tewanty?"  asked  Aunt  Car'line. 

"Do  you  take  me  for  a  public  nurse?  I  guess  if  I  did 
that  I'd  have  a  steady  job!  If  you  remember  I've  got 
a  husband  that  takes  as  much  waiting  on  as  Rhoda,  any 
day.  Maybe  you  don't  know  what  it  means  to  have  a 
nervous  person  in  the  family.  He  won't  let  the  chil- 
dren peep  at  the  table,  and  after  supper  they're  not  to 
get  off  their  chair  till  they  go  to  bed,  and  in  the  middle 
of  the  night  if  he  hears  the  clock  tick,  I  have  to  get 
up  and  stop  it,  or  take  it  down  cellar.  I  don't  think  I'm 
likely  to  go  around  offerin'  to  set  up  with  anybody  else." 

"Aunt  Car'line,"  broke  in  Julia,  "I  saw  you  buying 
plain  red  and  green  calico.  Are  you  piecing  a  quilt  and 
have  you  got  a  new  pattern?" 

"Yes,  I've  got  two.  Mis'  Ezra  gave  me  one,  and  my 
cousin  in  Smyrna  sent  me  the  other.  One  is  the  Blazing 
Star,  and  the  other  is  the  Rose  and  Lily.  You  make 
'em  both  by  hemming  the  bright  colors  on  white  cloth. 
They  are  lots  handsomer  than  Ann  Eliza  Tuthill's.  Say, 


106  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

Mis'  Jeremiah  Dix,  how'd  you  say  your  husband's  sister 
was  this  fall?" 

"Whew !"  exclaimed  Polly  Bush,  looking  out  of  the 
window  and  seeing  Jeremiah  Dix  and  his  little  boy  ride 
by,  "There's  that  boy  in  his  gingham  aprons  again ! 
When  do  you  suppose,  Julia,  that  Mis'  Dix  is  goin'  to 
leave  gingham  aprons  off  that  growin'  boy?" 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Dix,  who  had  caught  part  of  the 
remark  and  guessed  the  rest,  "I  like  to  have  him  clean, 
and  I  put  a  fresh  apron  on  him  every  time  he  comes 
into  the  house." 

"It'll  be  time  to  skim  the  milk  now  before  I  get  home," 
said  Mrs.  Titus,  who  had  been  showing  signs  of  uneasi- 
ness for  the  last  five  minutes.  "I  guess  it's  time  for  me 
to  be  getting  on  my  things." 

"If  I  don't  get  home  and  have  the  supper  on  the  table 
at  the  usual  minute,"  said  Mrs.  Tewanty,  rising  also, 
"my  husband'll  have  a  nervous  chill  and  all  the  family'll 
want  to  be  joining  the  circus  or  anything  else  that'll 
take  'em  away  from  home." 

It  was  not  long  till  the  president  was  left  alone  to  pick 
up  the  work.  She  examined  'the  apron  Emily  Potts 
had  been  sewing  on — the  hem  was  uneven,  the  seams 
not  overcast,  and  the  button-hole  a  pig's  eye. 

"Oh,  dear,"  she  sighed,  "and  I'm  responsible  for  it 
all !  Catch  me  being  president  next  year !" 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
THE  QUILTING. 

THE  North  American  Slender-hand,  as  Stephen  and 
Ledyard  called  him,  came  to  the  Deacon's  more  and 
more  frequently,  usually  before  tea,  and  then  he  and 
my  Aunt  Adeline  would  go  off  to  ride,  or  wander  into 
the  parlor,  and  I  noticed  that  my  mother  didn't  follow 
as  she  did  when  the  preacher  stayed  to  supper.  I  liked 
it  quite  as  well,  for  if  we  were  by  ourselves  I  could  get 
some  one  to  tell  me  a  story,  and  if  we  were  in  the  parlor 
I  shouldn't  expect  to  ask. 

"Have  you  got  that  white  cloth  ready  for  the  quilt?" 
asked  my  mother  one  summer  morning,  when  there  had 
already  been  three  quilts  and  two  comfortables  taken 
from  the  frames.  I  was  beginning  to  be  mystified.  But 
more  cloth  was  sewed  on,  the  cotton  laid  over  it,  the 
cover  placed  and  marked  with  a  border  of  vines  and 
roses,  and  the  center  filled  with  a  fine  shell  pattern. 
Again  they  sat  at  the  frame  for  days  stuffing  out  roses 
with  cotton,  shading  leaves  with  lines  of  fairy  stitching, 
but  the  task  grew  long  and  tedious  for  two. 

"Now,"  said  my  mother  at  last,  "shall  we  have  a  quilt- 
ing or  finish  it  ourselves  ?" 

"I'm  not  going  to  have  my  quilt  spoiled.  It's  for  my 
spare  room  and  will  last  a  life-time.  If  I  can  ask  just 
the  good  quilters  I'd  like  the  quilting,  it  would  be  more 
fun.  But  there  are  always  a  lot  of  know-nothings  that 
expect  to  be  asked." 

However,  the  quilting  was  decided  on,  Aunt  Adeline 
asked  just  those  she  wanted,  and  when  the  day  came  I 
made  many  errands  to  the  pantry  to  look  at  the  cold 
chickens,  jellies,  cakes,  custards,  and  currant  preserves; 


108  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

biscuits  were  rising  on  the  back  of  the  stove  and  the 
oven  was  still  full  of  things  at  which  I  vainly  tried  to 
get  a  peep. 

Mrs.  Ives,  Julia  Titus,  and  Aunt  Lucia  came  early, 
declaring  they  wanted  to  make  a  record  on  the  wedding 
quilt.  When  the  places  had  been  assigned,  and  every 
one  had  found  thimbles  and  threaded  their  needles,  the 
buzz  began. 

"Who's  the  new  doctor  that's  hung  out  his  sign  on  the 
Sloan  House  ?"  asked  Aunt  Lucia. 

"Calls  himself  homeopathist !"  said  Mrs.  Ives  in  dis- 
gust. "Pity  he  couldn't  have  found  some  Christian  name. 
Who  knows  what  it  means,  anyway  ?" 

"What  it  means  is  plain  enough,"  said  Julia  Titus, 
"it's  a  path  to  a  home.  But  he  can't  well  be  a  path  to 
more  than  one  home  unless  he's  a  Mormon." 

"Oh,  pshaw !"  and  Aunt  Lucia  gave  such  a  jerk  to  her 
thread  that  it  broke  right  in  the  middle  of  a  bud.  "It 
has  something  to  do  with  allopath  more'n  likely.  Dr. 
Edred  is  an  allopath  doctor,  isn't  he?  well,  this  is  just 
some  new  kind." 

"Where's  Adeline  ?  She's  been  at  the  Albany  Normal, 
she  ought  to  know." 

"Homeopathist?"  cried  Aunt  Adeline  from  the  center 
of  the  late  arrivals,  "he's  the  doctor  of  small  doses.  He 
puts  a  pill  into  a  pail  of  water,  dissolves  thoroughly,  and 
the  patient  takes  a  teaspoonful  once  in  twenty-four  hours. 
He  gets  well  just  the  same  as  if  he  took  ten  of  Dr. 
Edred's  pills." ' 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Mrs.  Ives.  "He'll  not  get 
me  to  dose  that  way.  When  I'm  sick  I  want  to  know 
I'm  taking  something." 

"It  might  be  good  for  Ann  Maria  Collins,"  said  Aunt 
Lucia.  "Perhaps  one  thing's  as  good  as  another  for 
hysterics." 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  109 

"He's  getting  practice  anyway.  Hannah  Mudge  says 
she  sees  him  going  in  to  Jerry  Brown's." 

"La !  that  comes  of  his  new  wife.  I  think  it's  scand'- 
lous  throwing  over  Dr.  Edred  that's  cured  Jerry  an'  the 
children  for  the  last  fifty  years.  I  think  he  could  be 
churched  for  doing  that,"  said  Mrs.  Ives  indignantly. 

"Come,  who  are  you  going  to  church  ?  Jerry,  the  doc- 
tor, or  the  new  wife?" 

"When  I  was  in  Albany,"  said  Adeline,  "the  apothe- 
caries came  up  to  the  Legislature  to  get  a  law  against 
homeopathy  because  they  compound  their  own  medicine 
— the  drug  business  seems  likely  to  go  begging." 

"Good  for  the  homeops"  cried  Aunt  Car'line.  "Let 
the  apothecaries  'tend  to  themselves.  I  want  a  drug 
store  not  tacked  on  to  any  doctor,  so  when  I  feel  sort 
o'  mean  1  can  get  fetty  pills  without  saying  ah,  yes,  or 
no  to  anybody.  Fetty  pills  are  awful  good  for  nervous 
folks." 

"A  man  said,"  remarked  Adeline,  "  'Similia  similibus 
curantur.'  " 

"Don't  talk  Injun,  Adeline." 

"It  isn't,  it's  Latin,  and  means  'If  anything  hurts  you, 
take  a  little  more/  " 

"I  thought  it  was  some  such  foolishness." 

"Well,  anyway,  he  began  by  taking  his  own  medicine 
to  see  how  it  would  act — that's  what  I  call  the  'milk  o' 
human  kindness' — for  a  doctor  to  experiment  on  him- 
self." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  to  know  if  that's  what  it  is,"  broke 
in  Julia  Titus;  "the  neighbors  hear  all  kinds  of  groans 
from  the  Sloan  House.  We  didn't  know  what  to  think, 
but  if  he's  experimenting  on  himself  there's  no  call  for 
interference." 

"Have  you  heard  the  homeopathic  recipe  for  chicken 
broth  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Miles.  "Kill  your  chicken,  and  hang 


110  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

it  in  the  sunlight  so  its  shadow'll  fall  on  a  kettle  of 
water  for  one  hour.  Salt  and  strain  and  it's  ready  for 
use." 

"By  the  way,  Mrs.  Lee,  do  you  believe  in  cold  water 
as  much  as  you  did?" 

"I  think,  just  as  I  always  have,  that  it's  good  for 
sore  throat." 

"Well,  I  don't  believe  in  water  cure,"  said  Julia  Titus. 
"This  freezing  a  sore  throat  and  breaking  the  ice  for 
a  bath,  and  being  wrapped  up  in  a  wet  sheet  and  giving 
up  every  thing  you  like  to  eat — it's  not  sensible." 

"Do  I  understand  that  that  hydropathy  doctor  claims 
to  cure  everybody?"  asked  Mrs.  Ives  indignantly.  "That 
means  water  is  good  for  everything,  and  we  all  know 
it's  the  very  worst  thing  a  person  can  have  for  a  fever. 
I  shall  take  no  notice  of  him,  and  if  every  one  else  does 
her  duty  he'll  soon  be  frozen  out  and  Dr.  Edred  get  all 
his  practice  back  again." 

"It's  my  opinion,"  said  Aunt  Lucia,  "if  anyone  takes 
up  with  hydropathy  or  homeopathy,  it  shows  a  tendency 
toward  superstition.  What  do  you  say,  Aunt  Betsy?" 

"Well,  Lucia,  water's  good  for  lots  o'  things  or  God 
wouldn't  have  given  us  so  much  of  it.  Sister  Lee  says 
cold  water's  been  the  saving  o'  her." 

"Where  is  Grandmother  Lee?"  asked  Mrs.  Miles. 

"She's  away  on  a  visit  to  New  York,"  cried  Jennet, 
"and  she  says  maybe  she'll  bring  me  a  china  doll,  and 
we're  having  the  party  while  she's  gone  'cause  we  don't 
want  her  to  know  Aunt  Adeline's  having  SQ  many  quilts, 
and  if  Aunt  Adeline  should  get  married,  which  of  course 
we  don't  know,  you  never  can  tell  what'll  turn  up,  but 
if  she  does  I'm  to " 

"There,  Jennet,  that's  enough;  you  go  out  doors  and 
play  with  Bessie,"  and  Jennet  had  to  leave  the  room  in 
disgrace,  "and  miss  all  the  things  they'll  say,"  she  re-. 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  111 

fleeted.  "But  mother  can't  make  me  miss  my  supper, 
'cause  what  I  said  was  every  word  true.  I  heard  Aunt 
Adeline  say  those  very  words  to  Stephen  when  he  joked 
her  'bout  'Lanson — I  don't  care,  it  wasn't  a  lie,  anyway." 

"What  are  we  coming  to,"  sighed  Aunt  Lucia,  "all 
these  new  kinds  o'  doctors  starting  up — one  can't  tell 
what  to  believe." 

"There  aren't  any  more  kinds  o'  doctors  than  there 
are  new  sects  o'  religion  settin'  up,"  said  Julia  Titus, 
"and  it's  a  plaguey  sight  harder  to  tell  who's  right  there, 
and  a  thousand  times  more  important." 

"It's  my  opinion,"  said  my  mother,  "that  whoever 
takes  the  Bible  as  his  guide  and  lives  up  to  its  precepts 
will  voyage  safely  to  the  heavenly  haven,  so  let's  not 
worry  or  judge  our  neighbors." 

"They're  all  quacks,"  said  Aunt  Lucia,  "to  come  here 
interfering  with  Dr.  Edred,  who's  been  good  'nough  for 
Ravenna  for  fifty  years  and  more.  I  consider  they're 
only  one  degree  better'n  spirit-rappers.  Down  in  Bing- 
hampton,  folks  consider  spirit-rappings  mere  supersti- 
tion. I  heard  the  Sloan  House  had  rappings  in  it,  and 
no  wonder;  a  great  unfinished  house,  unfurnished,  just 
the  place  for  uneasy  spirits  to  come  haunting." 

"Yes,"  added  Mrs.  Ives,  "they  say  there  are  strange 
noises  over  there  o'  nights ;  groans,  and  raps,  and  a  bell 
aringing — the  neighbors  think  it's  spooks,  but  it  may  be 
spirit-rappings  for  aught  we  know.  Have  you  been 
reading  about  the  Fox  Sisters?" 

"I  have,"  said  Aunt  Lucia,  "and  it  makes  me  feel 
spooks  behind  my  back  every  time  I'm  alone.  Not  so 
long  ago  I  went  up  to  the  garret  after  dark,  and  the 
stair  creaked,  and  the  old  door  groaned,  and  then  the 
wind  blew  out  my  candle — I  ran  back  to  the  kitchen 
quick  as  ever  I  could,  and  told  Jeremiah  he'd  have  to 


112  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

go  without  his  boneset  tea  that  night,  for  I'd  never  go 
up  there  again  in  the  dark." 

"Well,  Mrs.  Dix,"  said  Julia  Titus,  "I  never  thought 
you'd  be  superstitious.  But  oh,  Aunt  Car'line,  what  is 
that  I  hear  about  you  and  spirit  knockings?" 

"Do  tell!  and  who's  got  it  now?"  came  from  all 
sides. 

"Aunt  Car'line  always  gets  the  news  first  o'  anybody." 

"The  Judge,  as  it  happened,"  began  Aunt  Car'line, 
"was  going  to  attend  court  at  the  county-seat  last  week, 
so  I  thought  I'd  go  'long  and  stop  for  a  visit  with  Mrs. 
Ezra  Wilcox.  I'd  hardly  taken  off  my  bonnet  and  shawl 
when  she  began  tellin'  'bout  raps — an'  right  there  while 
we  was  talkin'  kind  o'  solemn  an'  quiet,  an'  I  wonderin' 
what  spirit  rappin's  was,  there  it  came,  slow  an'  reg'lar. 
behind  my  chair.  I  was  dretful  scared,  but  Mis'  Wilcox 
was  used  to  it,  an'  I  made  up  my  mind  I  could  stan' 
it  if  she  could.  We  spelled  out  the  words  and  finally 
it  gave  a  message  from  Elder  Dyer.  But  all  he  said 
was  "Damn !"  an'  then  I  knew  it  was  a  lie.  No  such 
word  as  that  ever  passed  his  godly  lips  when  he  was 
alive — then  we  got  up  an'  made  a  big  noise,  an'  Mrs. 
Ezra  began  gettin'  dinner,  an'  I  was  that  nervous  I  was 
all  of  a  tremble." 

"Why  didn't  you  hold  on  to  yourselves,"  asked  Mrs. 
Ives,  "an'  get  something  worth  hearing?  Ask  the  popu- 
lation o'  hell " 

"Aren't  you  ashamed  o'  yourself,  Amelia  Ives !  The 
idea  of  talking  so  of  that  good  old  Elder  Dyer  only 
three  months  dead!  I  should  think  you'd  be  afraid  of 
a  judgment.  Talk  of  churching  Jerry  Brown !" 

"Was  that  all  you  heard?"  asked  Julia,  in  a  disap- 
pointed voice. 

"All  for  that  day,"  replied  Aunt  Car'line. 

"Why,  have  you  heard  raps  since?     I  don't  suppose 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  113 

the  rest  of  you  care  about  any  more  of  this.  Come  into 
the  hall,  Aunt  Car 'line,  I'm  going  to  know  all  there  is 
to  be  found  out,  and  the  rest  of  you  can  keep  right  on 
with  your  quilting  and  cake  recipes." 

"No !  No !  We  want  to  hear  too !  We  believe  Aunt 
Car'line." 

"Sit  still  Julia,  and  I'll  tell.  The  next  week,  as  I  was 
spinning  on  my  little  wheel  at  home,  and  thinking  all 
the  time  of  what  I'd  heard  about  the  rappings,  by  and 
by  there  came  one.  It  wasn't  very  loud.  I  thought  at 
first  it  was  a  neighbor,  but  no  one  was  at  the  door  and 
the  knocks  came  right  along  louder,  and  directly  out  of 
the  chimney.  I  was  scared  almost  to  death,  bein'  alone — 
and  I  stopped  spinning  and  stood  right  up  an'  said,  'In 
the  name  o'  Jesus  Christ,  I  command  you,  whoever  you 
are,  to  depart  and  never  come  here  again,'  and  I've  never 
heard  another  rap." 

"Fd've  found  out  who  it  was  anyway,  and  what  he 
wanted,"  said  Julia,  much  put  out  that  her  curiosity  was 
not  to  be  better  satisfied. 

"You  did  just  right,  Car'line,"  said  my  mother.  "It  is 
cultivating  curiosity,  if  not  superstition,  and  one  never 
knows  whether  it's  a  good  spirit  or  a  bad  one." 

"We're  almost  through  the  border,"  said  Mrs.  Ives, 
"and  there's  only  a  little  of  the  shell-work.  Now  be 
generous,  girls,  and  let  Adeline  take  the  last  stitch  or 
you'll  upset  some  pretty  plans." 

"See  here  now,"  said  Julia,  "don't  you  think  we  have 
plans  as  well  as  Adeline?  She's  all  settled  anyway,  and 
I  don't  see  why  some  of  the  rest  of  us  can't  make  sure, 
too." 

"If  Adeline  doesn't  care,  I'm  sure  I  don't,"  laughed 
Mrs.  Ives. 

And  as  the  last  stitch  was  taken,  they  responded  to 
Jennet's  eager  call  by  trooping  into  the  dining-room. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
ENOCH'S  WIFE. 

THERE  was  one  woman  came  to  see  us  whom  I  never 
heard  called  anything  but  Enoch's  Wife.  I  never  even 
wondered  whether  she  had  another  name  or  not.  I 
loved  to  see  the  big  black  mules,  with  their  long  ears 
and  ropy  tails,  driving  up  to  our  door.  She  was  dif- 
ferent from  everybody  else;  her  head  trembled  all  the 
time  as  if  she  were  saying,  "No,  No!"  Her  hair  and 
face  and  eyes  were  nearly  all  of  the  same  soft  gray  color. 
She  wore  a  black  dress  and  did  not  always  have  on  a 
cap.  Then  you  could  see  her  hair  drawn  tight  to  the 
back  of  her  head  in  a  bunch  like  a  walnut.  When  she 
did  wear  a  cap  it  was  of  black  lace  trimmed  with  nar- 
row brown  ribbon,  and  the  little  strings  hung  flying  in 
the  wind  front  and  back  of  her  shoulders. 

Mother  said  she  talked  through  her  nose,  but  she  took 
so  much  snuff  I  for  my  part  didn't  see  how  the  sound 
could  get  through.  Mother  said  it  made  her  tired  to 
visit  with  Enoch's  Wife,  because  her  head,  hands,  or 
some  other  part  of  her  was  always  going.  But  I  thought 
the  talk  was  lively,  and  I  heard  a  lot  of -things  that  other 
people  wouldn't  tell  me,  while  she  was  following  my 
mother  round  getting  dinner  on  the  table. 

She  never  brought  her  knitting  but  sat  all  the  after- 
noon in  the  rocking-chair  with  her  snuff-box  in  one 
hand  and  a  pinch  in  the  other,  just  swaying  back  and 
forth.  I  was  on  hand  whenever  I  thought  she  was  going 
to  open  the  box,  hoping  she  would  offer  it  to  me.  It  was 
such  fun  to  sneeze,  sneeze,  sneeze,  when  I  couldn't  help 
it  and  everyone  knew  I  couldn't.  Grandmother  would 
look  cross  and  tell  me  to  stop,  but  I  would  go  right  on 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  115 

—I  had  to.  I  took  a  big  pindi  the  first  time,  for  I  knew 
they  wouldn't  let  me  have  another.  I  often  wondered 
why  my  Grandmother  didn't  carry  a  snuff-box — she  al- 
ways had  everything  anyone  else  did.  But  Grandmother 
was  very  elegant.  However,  Enoch's  Wife  seemed  to 
get  great  comfort  out  of  it,  as  a  man  does  out  of  his 
pipe. 

Enoch  and  his  wife  lived  way  back  in  the  hills,  miles 
back.  Long  years  and  hard  work  had  cleared  the  forest 
and  coaxed  the  rough  soil  into  a  tolerable  farm.  The 
house  sat  on  a  little  plot  leveled  out  of  the  side-hill, 
which  sloped  gently  away  to  a  wooded  stream  at  its 
foot.  Nasturtiums  and  bachelors'  buttons  grew  along 
the  south  side  as  far  as  the  kitchen  door.  There  were 
large  barns,  well  filled  when  winter  came,  with  cows, 
sheep,  and  oxen,  and  everything  to  feed  them  on.  Enoch 
himself  looked  an  old  old  man,  for  rheumatism  had  got 
hold  of  his  feet  and  chained  them  to  short  steps.  His 
face  was  weather  -  beaten  and  worn.  His  teeth  were 
nearly  gone  and  his  voice  seemed  to  come  from  some 
far-away  upper  chamber.  But  his  heart  was  sweet  and 
fresh  as  a  spring  morning,  untouched  by  avarice  or  the 
bitterness  that  so  often  follows  on  physical  discomfort. 

I  could  clap  my  hands  when  I  heard  my  father  and 
mother  talk  about  going  up  to  Enoch's.  When  we  got 
there  we  went  round  to  the  kitchen  door.  This  was 
where  the  family  and  most  of  the  visitors  came.  The 
kitchen  was  a  large  airy  room  and  the  very  heart  of 
the  home-life.  The  meals  were  prepared  and  the  dairy 
work  done  on  one  side  of  the  stove,  on  the  other  a  rag 
carpet  covered  the  floor,  and  in  a  warm  corner  were  a 
rocker  and  a  splint-bottomed  arm-chair.  On  a  stand  in 
front  of  the  window  lay  the  family  Bible,  the  weekly 
newspaper,  and  a  great  work-basket  with  the  roll  of 
pieces  for  making  good  the  daily  wear  and  tear.  Here 


116  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

the  company  sat  until  a  fire,  ready  laid  in  the  dining- 
room  stove,  could  be  kindled. 

The  garden,  with  its  beds  edged  in  sweet  alyssum  and 
its  trim  little  paths,  was  a  picture.  There  were  tomatoes 
— still  rare  enough  to  attract  curious  visitors,  quantities 
of  smelly  herbs,  bitters  for  the  "puke"  or  fever,  horse- 
radish roots  to  goad  on  a  reluctant  appetite,  and  leaves 
for  soothing  a  blister.  Bunches  of  lavender  and  rose- 
mary for  the  piles  of  linen,  and  "old  man"  and  "live- 
for-ever,"  "old  hen  and  chickens,"  dear  knows  what  for. 

In  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  if  it  was  spring, 
Enoch's  Wife  would  put  on  the  maple  syrup  to  sugar 
off.  It  would  boil  away  and  she  would  stand  and  stir 
and  stir  and  now  and  then  drop  a  little  off  the  end  of 
her  spoon  into  my  cup  of  water,  and  then  it  would  be 
done.  I  would  have  some  to  stir  into  a  grain  or  stiffen 
to  wax  on  snow,  and  Enoch's  Wife  would  fill  my  saucer 
again  and  again  till  mother  would  look  up  and  say, 
"There,  that  will  do,  Jennet,"  and  that  was  the  end  of 
that.  Then  Enoch's  Wife  would  say :  "Run  down  to  the 
pasture,  child,  and  help  Fido  bring  up  the  cows — you 
won't  have  any  appetite  if  you  don't." 

Then  came  the  dash  down  hill  with  Fido,  penning  the 
cows  in  the  yard,  and  dancing  round  to  watch  Enoch 
milk.  And  such  meat,  and  potatoes,  and  biscuits,  and 
pickles  as  we  found  on  the  table  when  we  went  in  for 
supper ! 

The  square  bed  up  at  Enoch's  had  a  teeter  over  the 
top  from  which  pink  chintz  curtains  hung  down  to  the 
floor.  The  pattern  on  the  chintz  spread  and  hangings 
was  a  harvest  scene ;  girls  in  shepherdess  hats,  tied  under 
the  chin,  were  raking  the  grass  while  the  water- jug  and 
dinner  basket  stood  at  the  foot  of  an  apple  tree.  Far 
handsomer  than  the  white  dimity  curtains  Grandmother 
had — I  thought. 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  117 

"Achsah,"  Enoch's  Wife  said  one  day,  "Have  you 
heard  the  young  student  preach  up  at  Simms'  corners?" 

"Yes,  once." 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  him?" 

"He's  inexperienced ;  has  a  great  deal  to  learn  yet,  I 
should  say." 

"Have  you  heard  about  his  courting  up  at  Eben's?" 

"I  should  think  Eben  would  put  a  stop  to  that;  Lois 
is  as  good  as  engaged  to  Amos  Towne." 

"Oh,  but  he  does  look  smart  in  his  silk  hat,  and  kid 
gloves,  and  store-clothes." 

"Virtue  is  the  greatest  ornament  and  good  sense  the 
best  equipage,"  my  mother  would  say. 

"But  then  he  has  only  to  stand  up  in  the  pulpit  and 
talk — that  makes  the  difference." 

"Talk  doesn't  make  a  pastor  any  more  than  dress. 
It  takes  knowledge  of  spiritual  things,  and  I  think  a 
little  of  the  homely  virtue  of  making  two  ends  meet, 
too." 

"They  do  say  he  preaches  good  sermons." 

"They  say  a  good  part  of  the  sermon  he  preached 
Sunday  about  beauty  in  apple  blossoms  and  moral 
grandeur  in  common  lives,  was  taken  straight  from 
Beecher,"  broke  in  Polly. 

"I  don't  know  how  that  may  be,  I'm  sure,"  said  my 
mother,  "but  1  don't  believe  in  accusing  any  one  with- 
out positive  proof.  However,  I  don't  fancy  his  marry- 
ing Lois.  I  was  over  at  Eben's  for  the  day  not  long 
ago.  and  about  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  a  span 
of  fine  horses  and  a  new  covered  carriage  drove  into 
the  lane.  Lois  went  out  to  see  who  it  was,  and  pretty 
soon  she  came  back  with  the  young  minister.  Mary  Jane 
had  to  go  out  and  hitch  the  horses  in  the  stall." 

"What  was  the  matter?     Couldn't  he  do  it  himself?" 

"It  would  seem  not." 


118  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

"How  did  he  happen  to  be  driving?" 

"Those  that  know  nothing — you  know 

"I  suppose  he  wanted  to  take  Lois  out — must  'a'  been 
Deacon  Quivey's  new  carriage — he. sets  a  store  by  Lois, 
they  say." 

"He  came  in  and  was  introduced — he  was  a  picture 
in  his  long-tailed  coat  and  white  tie,  tall  hat,  and  laven- 
der gloves  with  the  tips  of  the  fingers  all  neatly  pulled 
out — a  woman  couldn't  have  done  it  better.  He  took 
off  his  hat  and  set  it  on  his  knees,  but  he  sat  all  after- 
noon in  his  gloves. 

"  'Mr.  Le  Fevre,  do  lay  aside  your  gloves  and  stay 
awhile,'  Eben's  wife  would  say. 

"  'My  dear  Mrs.  Osgood,  it  is  impossible  at  this  present 
time  to  announce  the  exact  moment  of  my  departure. 
But  however  limited  my  call,  be  assured  of  my  un- 
bounded gratitude  for  your  hospitality.' 

"Of  course  Eben's  wife  asked  him  to  stay  to  tea,  but 
he  didn't  take  the  gloves  off  till  we  went  out  to  supper. 
What  do  you  think  of  that  for  a  little  place  like  Simms's 
Corners  ?" 

"I  think  he'd  better  stay  in  the  city  where  he  belongs," 
said  Polly.  "He  was  at  a  party  last  night  and  his 
broadcloth  suit  smelled  of  the  tailor's  shop,  his  hair 
was  slick  with  pomade  or  bear's  grease,  I  couldn't  tell 
which,  and  really  he  was  so  fine  I  couldn't  think  of  any- 
thing smart  enough  to  say  to  him ;  but  Mary  Ives  was 
there  and  she  and  him  was  real  chipper.  I  suppose  she's 
so  familiar  with  those  pictures  in  her  father's  shop  win- 
dows she  felt  quite  at  home." 

"Polly !  Polly !"  said  my  mother,  "perhaps  if  you  went 
to  the  city  you  would  be  just  as  awkward  as  he." 

"Yes,  Polly,"  said  her  mother,  "you  shouldn't  talk 
about  clothes.  If  your  skirt  hiked  up  in  front  and  down 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  119 

behind  it  would  be  one  of  the  seven  mortal  sins  among 
genteel  folks." 

"Have  you  never  heard,  Polly,  how  apt  we  are  to 
judge  the  defects  of  goodness  harshly  and  sometimes 
make  the  most  of  the  redeeming  qualities  of  vice?" 

"I've  heard,"  said  Enoch's  Wife,  who  was  by  no  means 
done  with  the  subject,  "that  down  Boston-way  they  raise 
parsons  like  onions,  in  a  bed,  and  probably  he  was  one 
of  the  weak  ones  that  didn't  get  on  well  when  they  are 
set  too  close  together." 

"He  should  have  been  pulled  up  by  the  roots  and  cast 
out  before  he  ever  got  to  Simms's  Corners,"  said  Polly, 
who  had  of  late  grown  unaccountably  bitter  on  the  sub- 
ject of  the  new  minister. 

"Poor  soul !"  sighed  my  mother,  "when  I  think  of 
what  the  future  holds  for  him,  my  heart  aches.  Even 
if  he  marries  a  rich  wife,  things  won't  always  run 
smooth  for  the  man  who  can't  rub  a  spot  off  his  own 
coat,  and  who  needs  someone  always  at  his  heels  to  fetch 
and  carry." 

"Still,"  persisted  Enoch's  Wife,  "they  say  he's  going 
to  marry  Lois." 

"Well,  I  pity  her,  but  it  would  be  the  smartest  thing 
he  ever  did." 

"He  intends  to  be  a  bishop,  so  he  tells  Lois." 

"A  bishop  !     Why,  he  isn't  even  ordained  yet !" 

"Yes,  he  told  Lois  when  he  got  to  be  bishop  he'd  have 
two  thousand  a  year  —  and  you  know  Lois  likes  fine 
clothes.  Or  maybe  he'd  be  a  professor,  he  said,  if  she 
liked  that  better." 

"Maybees  are  swarming  rather  lively  for  this  time  of 
year." 


CHAPTER  XV. 
THE  LOG  HOUSE. 

"JENNET,  you've  not  knit  your  stent  this  morning," 
said  my  mother.  "Go  now,  six  times  round  on  your 
stocking." 

"But  mother,  you  heard  father  say  if  it  was  a  dull 
day  we  might  drive  over  to  Union  Center  and  visit 
Uncle  Jason's.  And  it  is  cloudy  and  I'll  not  have  to 
knit,  will  I  ?" 

"He  hasn't  come  in  yet,  so  knit  your  stent  and  then 
you'll  be  ready.  We  don't  know  that  you're  going,  for 
sure." 

"Can  I  sit  in  the  butternut  tree  in  the  garden?  I  can 
work  better  out  there." 

Once  in  the  tree  the  wind  said,  "Rock-a-by  baby  in  the 
tree-top." 

"I  can't  rock,  I  have  to  knit,  knit,  knit." 

Then  the  bees  hummed  outside  the  hive  and  said, 
"We're  swarming,  we're  swarming;  if  you  don't  believe 
it,  come  and  see." 

"I  can't,  I  can't— oh  dear !" 

• 

And  the  birds  twittered  and  sung  and  flew  back  and 
forth  over  the  tree,  and  their  song  was: 

"Oh,  come  away,  from  labor  now  reposing, 
From  busy  care 
Awhile  forbear, 
Oh  come,  come  away." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  want  to,  but — there!  that's  three  times. 
It  will  never  get  done!  I  wish  Old  Granny  Garnsey 
would  come  for  a  visit,  she  knits  so  fast  you  can  just 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  121 

see  the  stocking  grow.  I  guess  I'll  go  in  the  house, 
anyway;  I'm  half  done.  Maybe  Aunt  Betsy'll  help  me." 

A  day  came,  not  long  after,  when  Jennet  and  her 
father  in  the  little  democrat  wagon  behind  Old  Skip 
drove  through  Bangall  and  up  and  down  steep  slopes 
till  they  turned  off  on  a  road  that  wound  diagonally 
across  Kye's  Hill.  On  one  side  was  a  strip  of  maple 
trees  lying  fair  to  the  south.  Their  owner  could  depend 
on  a  run  of  sap  before  any  neighboring  bush  had  even 
heard  the  call  of  spring,  or  the  farmer  had  washed  the 
spiles  and  buckets,  or  repaired  the  arch  and  boiling  pan 
for  the  sugar-making. 

The  hill  was  steep,  and  frequent  runs  were  placed 
across  the  road  to  hold  the  wagon  wheels  while  the 
horse  rested  or  stopped  to  drink  from  the  watering- 
trough.  The  zigzag  rail  fences  were  lined  with  elder 
bushes,  and  tall  ferns  almost  hid  the  wandering  brook. 

The  top  of  the  hill  having  been  reached,  there  was  a 
stretch  of  level  ground  on  either  hand,  each  with  its 
distant  fringe  of  woodland.  A  field  of  wheat  was  in  the 
shock,  timothy  and  orchard-grass  were  ready  for  the 
scythe,  potatoes  and  patches  of  beans  and  peas  were 
already  turning  yellow  and  gave  promise  of  an  abundant 
harvest.  A  sharp  turn  in  the  road  brought  them  in  sight 
of  the  log  house  where  Uncle  Jason  lived.  Two  small 
cousins  were  gathering  wild  berries  in  the  fence  corners, 
beside  old  stumps,  and  along  the  edge  of  the  wood.  Sud- 
denly Edward  spied  them. 

"Jennet  Lee  and  her  father !  Jennet  Lee's  come ! 
Jennet  Lee's  come!" 

The  house  stood  in  the  shade  of  a  tall  elm  whose 
drooping  branches  checkered  the  bars  of  sunlight  falling 
through  the  small-paned  windows.  A  few  marigold 
blossoms  were  growing  on  one  side  of  the  door  and 
hedged  a  bed  of  bachelor  buttons  in  blue  and  violet  and 


122  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

pale  lavender.  Farther  back  toward  the  spring  sun- 
flowers were  nodding  in  uncertain  fashion  along  the 
path.  The  broom  and  mop  leaned  against  the  crooked 
trunk  of  a  beech  tree  at  the  corner.  Near  the  doorway 
was  a  bench  with  a  water-pail  and  wash-basin,  and  above 
hung  the  dipper  and  towel.  Between  the  house  and 
barn,  alongside  the  vegetable  garden,  were  beds  of  fen- 
nel, sage,  and  dill  for  spicy  flavors  in  cooking. 

The  house  had  only  four  windows,  one  on  each  of 
three  sides  and  one  in  the  loft  above,  whose  only  ap- 
proach was  by  a  straight  ladder  from  the  kitchen  below. 
The  first  floor  was  in  one  room,  but  there  were  grades 
carefully  distinguished.  In  the  corner  beyond  and  be- 
hind the  door  was  Aunt  Mary's  four-poster,  and  pushed 
underneath  was  the  trundle-bed  for  the  younger  chil- 
dren. In  the  corner  opposite  the  company-bed  was  piled 
high  with  fresh,  sweet-smelling  straw  mattresses  and 
feather-ticks,  comforters,  blankets,  quilts,  and  pillows, 
for  though  the  house  was  small  and  the  family  purse 
lean,  there  was  always  a  hospitable  welcome  here. 

The  space  between  the  beds  was  the  "best  room."  A 
strip  of  rag  carpet  lay  on  the  floor  and  softened  the 
noise  of  little  feet.  One  of  the  windows  was  between 
the  beds,  and.  just  underneath  was  a  stand  with  two 
drawers,  and  on  this  lay  the  family  treasures.  The  big 
Bible  used  each  morning  at  family  prayers,  Bunyan's 
Pilgrim's  Progress,  a  hymn-book,  a  box  that  held  a  few 
bright  ribbons,  a  candy  rooster  belonging  to  Edward,  a 
small  Bible  Ann  had  won  as  a  prize  in  spelling,  and  a 
glass-covered  box  holding  a  few  shells  with  some  black 
and  red  beans  from  the  tropics  called  black-eyed  Nancys. 
These  were  not  to  be  handled  often,  nor  were  dirty  hands 
to  touch  them  ever. 

At  the  foot  of  the  bed  was  Aunt  Mary's  rocking-chair 
and  the  low  board  cradle  that  held  the  sleeping  baby. 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  123 

At  the  other  end  of  the  room  were  the  stove  and  the 
pantry,  set  off  by  a  slender  board  partition.  The  table 
found  which  they  gathered  three  times  a  day  was 
pushed  to  the  wall,  and  between  the  two  ends  was  a 
wide-open  space  for  the  coming  and  going,  the  stand- 
ing and  sitting  of  the  five  children. 

The  morning  work  was  done,  the  floor  clean,  and  the 
younger  children  out  gathering  berries.  Aunt  Mary  sat 
holding  the  baby  and  singing  a  hymn,  the  last  line  of 
which  she  repeated  over  and  over.  "The  Lord  my  shep- 
herd is,  I  shall  not  want,  I  shall  not  want."  Her  life 
was  full  of  duties — to  keep  the  house  clean  and  neat 
and  restful,  and  infinitely  cheery  and  pleasant  to  all  her 
little  brood,  to  wash  and  dress  and  sew  for  five  children 
and  make  them  presentable  with  little  or  no  outlay,  to 
train  them  all  for  the  Lord,  to  bring  them  up  good, 
honest,  God-fearing  men  and  women,  as  their  fathers 
before  them,  and  to  make  ends  meet  with  the  few  hard- 
wrung  dollars  that  came  in  from  the  farm — for  this  she 
had  need  of  the  promises  made  in  all  times  to  the  faith- 
ful. From  her  quiet  hour  she  was  now  roused  by  the 
cry,  "Jennet  Lee's  come !  Jennet  Lee's  come !" 

Jane  and  Edward  at  once  seized  Jennet  and  bore  her 
away  to  the  orchard. 

"My!  aren't  these  apples  good?  Are  they  Scrivin 
Sweets?  Father  says  Scrivin  Sweets  are  the  best." 

"Oh,  Jennet,  I  found  a  hen's  nest  this  morning,  a  big 
one.  It  had  as  many  as  a  bushel  of  eggs  in  it!" 

"It's  no  such  thing,  Edward.  Tell  the  truth  or  I'll 
tell  ma.  There  wasn't  more'n  a  panful." 

"Jennet,  there  was  —  there  was  a  bushel,"  insisted 
Edward. 

"What  a  pretty  apron  you  have,  Jennet;  I  wish  ma 
would  make  me  a  pink  one  instead  of  all  those  blue-and- 
white  checks." 


124  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

"Don't  you  have  a  dress-up  one  for  when  you  go  a- 
visiting?"  asked  Jennet. 

"We  don't  go  a-visiting  more'n  once  a  year,  down  to 
your  house." 

"Ma  takes  the  baby  when  she  goes  and  Ann  to  help 
her  take  care  of  him,  and  the  rest  of  us  have  to  stay 
home  with  Eunice,"  explained  Edward. 

"Eunice  goes  a-visiting  though,  or  somewhere,  when 
the  man  school-teacher  comes." 

"She  combs  her  hair  down  slick,  and  ties  a  red  rib- 
bon round  her  neck  and  puts  on  her  Sunday  bonnet  and 
gets  into  the  buggy  and  away  they  go.  I  wish  I  was 
growed  up.  Jennet,  I'd  take  you.  We'd  have  Old  Tim 
and  the  light  wagon,  with  the  long  whip,  and" — with  a 
wave  of  the  hand  toward  his  sister — "you'd  wish  you 
could  go,  but  we  wouldn't  stop,  no  siree." 

"Children,  come  to  dinner,"  was  the  call  from  the 
house,  and  each  one  ran  as  fast  as  the  small  legs  would 
carry  them. 

"And  how's  Aunt  Betsy,  Deacon?"  asked  Aunt  Mary 
when  they  were  seated  at~the  table.  "Weaving  rag  car- 
pets and  serving  the  Lord,  I  suppose." 

"Yes,  only  she  puts  serving  the  Lord  first.  Ah,  here's 
Jason." 

"Glad  to  see  you,  Deacon ;  got  your  haying  all  done 
so  you  can  go  a-visiting?" 

"Not  exactly,  the  visit  is  thrown  in  to  bring  Jennet. 
I'm  going  on  to  Solon  to  do  a  job  of  surveying." 

After  dinner  Jennet's  father  went  to  his  appointment, 
Aunt  Mary  and  Ann  to  their  work,  and  the  children 
again  fled  to  the  orchard.  It  wasn't  long  before  thirsty 
throats  led  them  to  the  spring.  The  tin  cup  was  handed 
Jennet  first  because  she  was  company,  and  she,  to  be 
very  smart  with  something  she  had  learned  of  Nancy 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  125 

Edred  just  the  day  before,  passed  the  cup  on  to  Jane 
saying,  "If  you  love  me,  drink." 

,Then  there  was  a  dispute  as  to  which  ought  to  drink 
first.  This  was  no  sooner  settled  than  Jennet  cried, 
''Jane,  you  drink  more  than  Edward,  don't  you?" 

"No,  she  doesn't,  and  I  want  another  cup  anyway." 

"I  guess  I'll  take  another  too,"  and  Jane  filled  the 
cup  again. 

"Don't  catch  a  girl  getting  ahead  of  me,"  and  Edward 
drained  the  cup  again. 

"You  can  drink  another,  Jane,"  cried  Jennet,  "see  if 
you  can't." 

"I  guess  I  can,  but  I'm  pretty  near  full." 

"Oh,  but  that's  a  sweet  girl,  do." 

"You  needn't  think,  Jennet,  that  you  are  going  to  make 
Jane  win.  I  can  beat  her  any  day,"  and  Edward  drank 
on. 

"Just  one  more,  Jane,  and  beat  him,"  pleaded  Jennet. 

"Oh  Jennet,  I  can't,  I'm  full  clear  up  to  my  chin." 

"If  she  drinks  another,  I  will  too." 

"I  would  if  I  could,"  and  she  lifts  the  cup  to  her  lips, 
but  shakes  her  head  at  last  with  a  tear  in  her  eye. 

"There !    I  told  you  so.    I  beat !" 

"A  snake !  A  snake !"  cried  Jennet  suddenly,  pointing 
to  a  quiver  in  the  grass.  "Kill  him,  Edward !  Kill  him !" 

"Every  one  of  you  get  a  stone,"  said  Edward,  "and 
throw  it  at  him  and  I'll  throw  the  last  one  and  that  will 
kill  him." 

"I  killed  the  snake !"  cried  Edward  when  it  was  cer- 
tain the  enemy  was  no  more.  "I  killed  the  snake!" 

"No,  sir;  I  killed  the  snake,"  pouted  Jennet,  "for  my 
stone  was  the  biggest." 

"No  you  didn't,"  cried  Jane,  "for  I  hit  him  first." 

"Don't  you  remember,"  said  Edward,  "I  said  I'd  hit 
him  last  and  that  would  kill  him." 


126  WHEN  FOLKS.  WAS  FOLKS 

"For  shame,  Edward!"  said  Eunice,  who  had  come  to 
the  spring  for  a  pail  of  water,  "Jennet's  your  company, 
of  course  she  killed  him." 

"Let's  bury  him,  anyway,"  said  Edward,  and  he  dug 
a  hole  in  the  soft  mud  with  a  shingle  and  Jane  pushed 
him  in  with  a  long  stick. 

"Take  off  your  hat,  Edward,"  said  Jennet,  "and  we'll 
say,  'Now  I  lay  me.'  There,  he's  buried  all  right  now — 
but  I  forgot — wouldn't  the  friends  like  to  come  forward 
and  take  a  last  look?  Fall  in  line,  there,  I'll  lead — dear 
me!  the  sand's  fallen  in,  you  can't  see  anything  but  the 
tail,  but  I  guess  that'll  do — there  are  lots  o'  things  we 
ought  to  do  and  say,  only  he's  an  enemy — -but  say,  did 
you  never  hear  that  dead  snakes  come  to  life  again  if 
another  snake  bites  'em?" 

"No,  but  let's  see  if  it's  true." 

"But  we've  said,  'Now  I  lay  me,'  "he's  buried — when 
you  bury  folks  you  can't  dig  'em  up  to  look  at  'em — 
they  can't  come  out  till  the  last  trump  sounds." 

"That's  because  they  have  souls,  and  maybe  it  would 
take  their  souls  away  from  heaven,"  said  Jane. 

"But  snakes  don't  have  souls,"  said  Edward,  "they 
just  die  and  that's  the  end  of  it." 

"Then  we  can  dig  him  up  to  see  if  it's  true." 

"Let's  dig  him  up  now  and  find  a  snake-hole  and  bury 
him  close  to  it,  so  the  live  snakes'll  be  sure  to  find  him, 
and  tomorrow  morning  we'll  come  and  see,  and  if  we 
can't  find  him  then  he  was  bit  by  another  snake  and 
come  to  life." 

"Do  you  know,"  asks  Jennet,  when  the  second  burial 
has  been  accomplished,  "that  snakes  grow  out  of  horse- 
hairs? Tail-hairs,  you  know,  and  they  must  lie  in  water 
a  long  time." 

Both  the  other  children  opened  their  eyes  wide  and 


127 

waited  breathless  to  hear  the  details  of  this  transforma- 
tion. 

"Yes,  my  cousin  Joseph  from  Boston  was  at  our 
house  last  summer,  and  he  said  you  put  them  in  the 
watering-trough  or  somewhere,  and  by-and-by  when  you 
have  forgotten  all  about  it  live  snakes  will  be  there." 

"Let's  try,"  cried  Edward ;  "shall  I  go  pull  some  hairs 
out  of  Old  Tim's  tail?" 

"No,  you  cannot,"  said  Jane,  "I  won't  have  hairs  pulled 
out  of  Old  Tim's  tail,  it  would  hurt." 

"Let's  go  to  the  house,"  suggested  Jennet,  "maybe  the 
baby '11  be  awake." 

"No,  I  don't  want  to,"  said  Jane;  "I'd  have  to  tend 
him." 

"But  I  want  to  hold  him." 

"Oh  pshaw !  you'd  get  tired  of  it  soon  enough  if  you 
had  it  to  do  regular." 

However,  they  went  to  the  house,  but  the  baby  wasn't 
awake,  so  they  wandered  round  by  the  crooked  beech 
tree  eating  apples. 

"Do  you  know  how  to  have  good  luck  all  the  year 
round?"  asked  Jennet. 

"  'Break  the  first  brake 
And  kill  the  first  snake, 
And  you'll  have  good  luck  all  the  year.'  " 

"We've  killed  the  first  snake  and  I  know  where  the 
ferns  grow,"  said  Edward — "come  on." 

"Oh  pshaw !"  said  Jane,  "wish-bones  are  lots  easier. 
I'm  not  going  way  out  to  the  woods.  I  don't  see  it  makes 
much  difference  'bout  tending  baby  whether  I  have  good 
luck  or  poor  luck,"  and  Jane  leaned  over  the  big  rain- 
water barrel  that  stood  at  the  corner  of  the  house. 
"Hello!  I  see  a  face  in  the  barrel." 

"I  see  two  faces,"  said  Edward,  leaning  over  too. 


128  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

"Of  course,  yours  and  mine,"  and  Jane  gave  him  a  slap 
on  the  seat  of  his  trousers  that  sent  him  headlong  into  the 
water. 

"Edward  is  drowned !  Mother,  come  quick,  Edward's 
in  the  rain-barrel !  He'll  die!  He'll  die!" 

Aunt  Mary  came  running  and  pulled  Edward  out  drip- 
ping from  head  to  foot.  Dry  clothes  restored  his  self- 
assertion,  and  coming  round  to  where  the  girls  were,  he 
said  to  Jane: 

"You  look  out,  I'll  pay  you  back !"  whereupon  the  girls 
laughed.  "I'll  pay  you  double,  double,  double " 

A  voice  from  the  house  now  called  them  to  come  in, 
and  Jennet  found  her  father  waiting  for  her.  As  Old 
Skip  was  starting  out  on  his  jog-trot  Jennet  turned  for 
a  last  word : 

"Edward,  be  sure  and  tell  me  about  the  snake.  Re- 
member now,  and  don't  forget!" 

Once  when  Edward  was  about  ten  years  old,  his  cousin 
Alfred  came  and  stayed  two  days.  The  minute  the  first 
hellos  were  said  they  started  for  the  barn. 

"See  here,  boys,"  called  Aunt  Mary,  "you  must  grow 
up  to  be  good  men  like  your  fathers,  and  to  do  that  you 
must  know  the  Law  of  the  Lord.  So  before  you  go  out 
to  play  you  learn  a  chapter  from  the  Bible,  for  that  is 
the  Law  of  the  Lord;  and,  Edward,  you  fill  the  wood- 
box  for  the  kitchen  stove." 

"You  get  the  wood,"  whispered  Alfred,  "and  I'll  hunt 
the  shortest  chapter  in  the  Bible." 

Alfred  found  the  psalm  of  two  verses,  the  wood-box 
was  filled,  and  it  wasn't  long  before  they  were  off  to 
the  calves  and  colts,  running  the  fanning-mill  when  no 
one  was  looking,  flinging  the  flail,  jumping  on  the  hay, 
and  poking  the  colt  to  see  him  throw  up  his  hind  heels. 

After  supper  arrangements  began  to  be  made  for  going 
to  prayer  meeting. 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  129 

"Eunice  and  Jane,"  said  Aunt  Mary,  "you  will  stay 
home  and  take  care  of  the  house.  The  baby  I  shall  put 
to  sleep  before  I  go.  Edward  and  Alfred  and  Ann  can 
go  with  us  to  the  House  of  the  Lord.  Alfred,  you  know 
you  must  honor  the  Lord  by  going  to  His  house  for 
prayer  and  praise,"  and  she  pressed  her  lips  together 
and  gave  the  little  shake  to  her  head  she  always  did  when 
she  wanted  to  emphasize  what  she  was  saying. 

"The  Word  says,  'Honor  the  Lord  with  all  thy  sub- 
stance and  the  first  fruits  of  all  thine  increase' ;  so  boys, 
you  fill  this  basket  with  the  best  apples  you  can  get  from 
the  early  sweets  and  take  some  of  the  pears  we  gathered 
yesterday,  and  we'll  leave  them  at  the  minister's." 

"Aunt  Mary,"  said  Alfred,  "you  didn't  say  all  that 
verse — 'so  shall  thy  barns  be  filled  with  plenty  and  thy 
presses  burst  out  with  new  wine.'  Do  you  give  apples 
to  the  minister  so  you'll  get  big  crops  next  year?" 

"Ah,  Alfred,  I  give  because  the  Word  of  the  Lord 
tells  me  to.  I  want  to  be  an  obedient  servant  in  the 
service  of  our  Lord  and  Master,  and  He  will  send  what 
He  sees  fit." 

"Well  but,  Aunt  Mary,  about  that  other  part — 'thy 
presses  shall  burst  out  with  new  wine.'  I  thought  you 
didn't  believe  in  drinking  wine.  Why  is  that  in  the 
Bible?" 

"It's  true,  wine  is  good  and  useful  in  its  place,  but 
men  nowadays,  if  they  drink  at  all,  drink  too  much  and 
it  takes  away  their  will,  it  takes  away  their  money  that 
should  be  used  for  other  things,  makes  them  unfit  for 
work,  and  they  cease  to  honor  God;  so  the  safe  way  is 
not  to  drink  at  all,  my  boys." 

"Mary,  are  the  candles  ready?"  calls  Uncle  Jason.  ' 

"Don't  you  remember  the  new  tin  candlesticks  they've 
ntit  on  the  wall?  each  holding  two.  and  the  Mite  Society 
is  going  to  furnish  those." 


130  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

"That's  so,  and  we  won't  need  the  stone  ink-bottles 
then  either.  And  Mary,  don't  let  me  forget  to  give 
Elder  Barlow  notice  of  that  'bee'  for  getting  in  wood 
on  Friday.  There  isn't  more'n  enough  for  next  Sunday." 

"Boys,"  said  Aunt  Mary,  "there  will  be  a  chance  for 
every  one  at  the  prayer  meeting  to  say  something  in 
praise  of  the  Lord.  You  are  not  too  young  and  you 
might  repeat  a  verse  from  the  Psalm  you  learned  this 
morning,  for  whoso  offereth  praise  glorifieth  God." 

"Yes,"  said  Alfred,  "the  verses  will  go  around,  won't 
they  ?"  winking  at  Edward. 

And  so  Aunt  Mary  had  God  in  all  her  thoughts. 

"Well,  out  with  it  boy;  what  is  it?"  asked  Uncle  Jason 
the  next  morning  of  Alfred,  whom  he  found  wriggling 
on  a  stiff  chair  in  the  company  end  of  the  room,  talking 
to  Aunt  Mary. 

"Please — I  want  to  go  home,"  he  whispered  confiden- 
tially to  Uncle  Jason. 

"Pshaw  now,  can't  you  tell  your  old  uncle?"  Uncle 
Jason  sat  down  and  drew  Alfred  into  convenient  rela- 
tion with  his  ear. 

"Please,  I've  got  to  holler — and  the  baby'll  wake  up." 

"Of  course  you  have — it's  a  good  place  out  on  the 
gate-post.  See  here  —  where's  Edward  ?  What!  in 
mother's  cookies?  I  declare  you  boys  are  hollow!  Run 
along  now,  out  to  the  front  gate — Alfred's  got  a  secret 
for  you" — and  out  the  boys  ran,  hopping,  skipping,  jump- 
ing, leap-frogging;  each  wildly  eager  to  get  to  his-  post, 
each  delayed  by  the  necessity  for  getting  there  in  a 
highly  artistic  and  admirable  manner. 

"Hurrah  for  Clay!  Hurrah  for  Harry  Clay!  Harry 
Clay!  Harry  Clay!"  first  one  post,  then  the  other- — for 
a  full  half  hour  politics  ran  high  in  the  gate  while  Uncle 
Jason  and  Aunt  Mary  smiled  inside,  and  the  baby  never 
stirred  in  the  cradle. 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  131 

In  the  years  that  followed,  fortune  smiled  on  the 
log-house  family.  The  children  grew  like  mushrooms 
after  a  warm  rain.  They  left  the  hill-farm  and  lived 
in  the  valley,  their  house  increased  in  size  and  comforts. 
It  had  a  real  parlor  and  plenty  of  bedrooms,  there  was 
a  cabinet  organ  in  the  sitting-room,  and  all,  from  the 
ohiest  to  the  latest  baby,  could  sing.  Music  was  their 
recreation  and  entertainment,  a  solace,  an  aid  and  in- 
spiration in  family  worship.  Their  singing  was  a  kind 
of  public  benefit  fund,  levied  on  for  funerals,  merry- 
makings, school  exhibitions,  Fourth  of  July  celebrations, 
as  well  as  for  regular  service  in  the  choir. 

No  call  was  unheeded  by  Uncle  Jason,  whether  for 
voice  or  hand,  and  such  good  cheer  and  jolly  company 
and  funny  stories !  But  time  with  his  burden  laid  heavy 
hands  on  the  old  man,  and  finally  he  passed  over  the 
threshold  of  his  home  not  to  return.  Alfred,  a  successful 
lawyer,  at  that  time  a  legislator  in  the  midst  of  men  and 
affairs,  hearing  of  Uincle  Jason's  death,  exclaimed,  "I 
shall  always  think  of  him  as  not  belonging  to  the  ordi- 
nary class  of  men.  He  seemed  to  me  like  some  noble 
old  Roman ;  honest,  brave,  king-like,  true  to  his  friends. 
The  earth  is  brighter  for  his  living  here,  Heaven  will  be 
more  welcome  to  many  a  weary  heart  at  the  thought  of 
meeting  him  there." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 
ELDER  PERKINS. 

"JENNET,  now  you  sit  down  and  be  still  while  we  talk," 
said  my  mother  one  summer  afternoon  when  Aunt  Lucia 
had  brought  her  sewing  just  to  have  a  bit  of  a  visit  be- 
fore it  was  time  to  get  supper. 

"May  I  have  the  little  trunk  with  ribbons  in  it?" 

"Yes,  and  be  quiet." 

So  the  little  wooden  trunk  a  foot  and  a  half  long,  cov- 
ered with  dog-skin,  hair-side  out,  and  fastened  with 
brass-headed  nails,  was  brought  along,  with  its  treasure 
of  bright  ribbons  and  cast-off  finery. 

"What  do  these  letters  on  top  mean,  mother?  S.  R.  D., 
made  from  brass  nails." 

"Sartoff  Ridell  Davis,  my  child ;  he  made  the  trunk 
one  rainy  day  when  he  couldn't  work  out  of  doors,  and 
gave  it  to  your  father." 

"Queer  name  —  Sartoff — "  said  Aunt  Lucia.  "It 
sounds  Russian." 

"Perhaps  he  was.  He  was  an  emigrant  boy  anyway; 
came  along  when  we  were  first  married  -  -  in  need  of 
everything  from  hat  to  shoes,  and  Mathew  kept  him.  We 
burned  his  whole  outfit,  I  couldn't  harbor  that  in  the 
house.  The  boy  was  almost  more  than  I  could  stand, 
but  we  made  him  clean,  gave  him  new  clothes  and  set 
him  to  work.  He  turned  out  to  be  a  good  boy  and 
stayed  with  us  four  years.  Mathew  gave  him  his  last 
name — we  couldn't  twist  our  tongues  to  what  he  said." 

"I  should  call  your  house  pretty  much  of  a  training- 
school.  How  many  poor  ignorant  boys  have  you  taken 
from  worse  than  nothing  and  trained  to  honesty  and 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  133 

the  habit  of  hard  work?  Whatever  became  of  that  Jor- 
dan boy?" 

"Yes,  poor  in  everything  but  high  hopes  and  persistent 
grit,  wasn.'t  he?  He's  a  lawyer  in  Rochester  now." 

"Oh  mother,  here's  the  tiniest  needle-book  all  wrapped 
up  in  silk  paper,  and  the  cover's  embroidery  and  the 
leaves  are  all  red  flannel!  Can't  I  have  it  for  mine?" 

"Yes,  Birdie,  it  is  yours.  Julia  sent  it  to  you  when 
you  were  just  one  day  old,  and  said  she  hoped  the  little 
fingers  would  one  day  weave  as  beautiful  things  as  her 
mother's  had.  Wasn't  that  nice  of  her,  Lucia?" 

"And  mother,  what's  this  little  green-covered  book  with 
hair  all  tied  up  in  round  rings  in  it?" 

"Sh'l  Sh'!  a  memento  book — your  Aunt  Adeline's — 
made  when  she  was  at  school — a  curl  from  each  of  her 
friends." 

''I'm  going  to  make  one — and  I'll  put  in  some  of  Bes- 
sie's wool,  and  a  lock  of  Fido's  and  Old  Skip's  and  Aunt 
Mary  Jane's — if  only  the  kittens  hadn't  all  died !  Never 
mind,  she'll  have  some  more,  I  told  her  I  wanted  'em, 
and— Mother,  why  can't  kittens  go  to  heaven?" 

"Jennet,  Aunt  Lucia  and  I  are  talking" ;  and  Jennet 
soon  forgot  her  questions  in  handling  the  bright  ribbons, 
bits  of  hand-made  lace,  old-fashioned  collars1  exquisitely 
embroidered,  baby  caps  of  muslin  and  lace  worked  in 
fairy  wreaths  and  vines  and  flowers,  and  finally  a  piece 
of  Grandmother's  wedding  dress,  rose  and  gold  change- 
able silk  with  overshot  dots  of  white. 

"How  handsome  Grandmother  must  have  looked  in  her 
long  train  and  little  boy  to  hold  it  out  of  the  dust,  and 
her  white  corded  silk  slippers  she  keeps  wrapped  up 
in  her  middle  drawer!"  Then  Jennet  picked  up  a  sam- 
pler; it  was  yellow,  and  the  big  letters  looked  so  strange 
she  could  hardly  tell  what  they  were.  But  in  the  corner 


134  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

she  found — "Achsah  Halbert,  done  in  the  ninth  year  of 
her  age,  1810." 

"Mother,  was  that  you?  How  long  ago  you  lived. 
It's  1846  now.  But  whose  stockings  were  these,  white 
silk,  and  legs  long  enough  for  Giant  Despair?" 

"Ah,  my  dear,  those  were  your  father's  wedding  stock- 
ings; and  that  bit  of  straw-colored  satin  with  black  dots 
was  a  piece  of  his  vest.  Lucia,  do  you  remember  how 
he  looked  that  night  in  his  ruffled  shirt  and  wrist-bands, 
his  small-clothes  and  silver  knee-buckles,  and  his  hand- 
some coat  and  waistcoat?" 

"Standing  straight  as  a  pine  in  his  six  feet.  Ah,  Jen- 
net, you'll  never  know  how  fine  your  father  looked 
then." 

"He  just  looks  nice  now.  There's  no  man  so  good  as 
my  father." 

Aunt  Lucia  now  went  on  with  the  interesting  news 
she  was  telling,  how  their  nephew  De  Forest  was  going 
to  see  Angelina  Littlesmile  every  week.  "He  puts  up 
at  the  hotel  and  then  walks  back  and  forth  on  the  long 
piazza  in  full  view  of  the  Littlesmile  house  until  Ange- 
lina puts  out  her  hand  from  the  window  of  the  Square 
Room  and  fastens  back  the  blind.  That  being  observed 
he  walks  over  in  his  proud  haughty  way,  his  tall  shiny 
hat  he  bought  of  Jeremiah  not  above — let's  see,  just 
six  weeks  ago  tomorrow — no  doubt  he  had  his  mind 
set  on  Angelina  at  the  time — he's  sly,  is  De  Forest — but 
where  was  I?" 

"His  silk  hat " 

"Oh,  yes — it's  very  becoming — just  the  thing  for  a 
clerk  in  the  big  store  at  Casnovia.  He  goes  every  Sat- 
urday afternoon  at  five  o'clock,  and  nobody  knows  when 
he  goes  home.  They  do  say  Aunt  Philomela  is  dread- 
fully set  up  over  it,"  and  Aunt  Lucia,  filled  with  the 
pride  of  being  aunt  to  so  elegant  and  desirable  a  young 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  135 

man,  added — "She  better  look  out  and  not  be  too  sure 
of  her  chickens,  such  a  smart  young  fellow  as  De  Forest 
may  look  higher  than  the  little  town  of  Platter  for  a 
wife,  and  such  advantages  as  he  has  being  in  Casnovia 
and  knowing  Mr.  Grosvenor,  the  owner  of  .that  big  store. 
They  say  he  takes  lots  of  interest  in  De  Forest." 

"Poor  dear  Melissa,"  sighed  my  mother,  "so  proud  and 
so  ambitious !  If  she  could  only  see  her  sons  now.  Well, 
these  boys  come  rightly  by  their  grand  ways  from  her, 
and  they've  got  their  father's  good  sense  in  business 
too." 

"Didn't  I  see  De  Forest  sitting  with  your  mother  Lee 
last  Sunday?" 

"Yes,  she's  given  up  sitting  in  the  pulpit  now  Elder 
Ball's  dead,  and  has  gone  back  to  her  slip  in  the  center 
of  the  church.  She's  asked  De  Forest  to  sit  with  her  on 
Sundays." 

"Do  tell,  now !"  - 

"Yes,  they've  put  a  red  cushion  on  the  seat  and  foot- 
stools and  a  carpet  on  the  floor." 

"Well,  well,  well !"  exclaimed  Aunt  Lucia  greatly  ex- 
cited, "while  she  praises  God  for  His  goodness  to  her 
and  to  the  children  of  men,  she'll  enjoy  De  Forest's  young 
face  and  smart  clothes  and  deferential  manner." 

Meantime,  the  sky  had  been  getting  dark  and  a  sharp 
peal  of  thunder  rattled  the  windows. 

"Jennet,  run  and  pull  down  the  windows  upstairs." 

"Shall  I  go  in  Parson  Perkins'  room?" 

"No,  he'll  look  after  them." 

"How  long  is  the  parson  going  to  visit  you  anyway, 
Achsah?  He's  been  here  two  months  now." 

"Oh,  well,  there  doesn't  seem  to  be  any  other  place  for 
him.  I  don't  know  how  long  the  church  expects  to  hire 
him.  He's  only  a  temporary  supply,  you  know.  There 


136  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

he  is  coming  downstairs  now.  He  always  comes  if  there 
is  a  thunder-storm." 

"Is  he  afraid  ?" 

"I  suppose  misery "  here  the  door  opened,  and  the 

Rev.  Perkins,  tall,  lean,  slightly  stoop-shouldered,  with  a 
squint  in  his  eyes,  walked  in  rubbing  his  hands. 

"A  heavy  storm,"  he  says,  drawing  a  rocking-chair 
from  the  corner.  Another  flash  and  a  loud  clap  of  thun- 
der. He  gets  up  and  shakes  the  feather  cushion  and 
sits  down  on  it,  remarking: 

"You  are  aware  that  feathers  are  a  non-conductor  of 
electricity,  and  .so  make  a  safe  as  well  as  comfortable 
place  to  sit?" 

With  the  next  peal  and  zigzag  flash  he  takes  out  a  silk 
pocket-handkerchief,  folds  it  square,  and  puts  it  on  the 
top  of  his  head. 

"You  take  good  care  to  protect  yourself  against  the 
lightning,  Elder,"  remarks  Aunt  Lucia.* 

"Yes,  I  take  all  the  precautions  in  my  power.  The 
ways  of  the  Lord  are  past  finding  out,  so  I  take  advan- 
tage of  our  moiety  of  secular  wisdom,  though  it  amounts 
to  very  little,  Mrs.  Dix,  to  very  little  indeed." 

"Mr.  Perrin  is  very  sick,  did  you  know  that?"  asked 
Aunt  Lucia. 

:"What!  the  new  merchant?    No,  I  hadn't  heard." 

"He  was  over  in  the  next  county  where  they're  hav- 
ing an  epidemic  something  like  cholera;  they're  taken 
quite  suddenly  and  die  almost  before  they  know  it." 

"  'The  New  York  Evangelist'  tells  about  a  disease  in 
the  city  something  like  that,"  said  Elder  Perkins. 

"He  was  so  scared  he  couldn't  talk  about  anything 
else  after  he  got  home.  His  wife  says  she  knew  he'd 
have  it  and  die  too.  I  don't  know  why  she  should  feel 
so  sure,  it's  almost  wicked  to  be  so  set  on  a  thing  you 
don't  want,  it  certainly  flies  in  the  face  of  the  Gospel. 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  137 

But  however  that  may  be,  he  came  down  day  before  yes- 
terday with  all  the  symptoms  and  this  morning  they 
thought  he  couldn't  live.  Hark !  there's  the  church  bell 
now !  Some  one's  dead.  I  don't  know  any  one  else 
that's  sick.  Listen  !  Count  the  years." 

Slowly  the  bell  tolled  forty-two  and  stopped,  then 
struck  one.  to  let  the  villagers  know  it  was  a  man. 

"It  must  be  Mr.  Perrin,  he  was  just  about  that  old. 
But  dear  me !  look  at  the  time,  and  it's  cleared  off  too. 
I  must  be  going,"  and  Aunt  Lucia  folded  up  her  work. 

"I  think  I'll  just  go  along  too,"  said  Elder  Perkins, 
"and  give  Mrs.  Perrin  a  little  of  that  great  comfort  we 
have  in  the  Lord.  What  a  blessed  thing  it  is,  sisters,  to 
escape  this  world  of  sin  and  trouble !  Oh,  welcome 
Death !" 


CHAPTER  XVII. 
THE  SINGING-SCHOOL. 

AMOS  pushed  back  from  the  table  after  supper  one 
cold  night  near  the  first  of  December,  and  called  out 
to  Mary  Ann: 

"Remember,  it's  Monday  night,  and  we're  going  to 
start  for  the  Singing-school  in  just  half  an  hour." 

"Oh,  Amos,  I  can't  wash  the  dishes  and  be  ready 
quick  as  that." 

"Yes,  you  can,  and  we've  got  to  stop  along  the  way 
and  pick  up  the  boys  and  girls.  Likely  enough  some 
o'  them'll  be  slow." 

"Yes,  and  you'd  be  willing  to  wait  half  an  hour  for 
Deborah  and  be  sweet  as  honey  when  she  came." 

"Just  so,  just  so,  and  now  hurry  your  dishes.  I'm 
off  to  the  barn." 

With  much  rattle  and  clatter  and  bustle  the  long 
sleigh  and  Mary  Ann  were  ready  on  the  minute ; 
Amos  cracked  the  whip,  and  bells  jingled,  and  the 
horses  jumped  ahead  over  the  smooth  icy  road. 

At  the  first  house  John,  Hannah  Jane  and  Deborah 
came  out. 

"How  d'ye  get  along  with  the  subscription  paper, 
John?"  asked  Amos. 

"Pretty  well;  a  few  men  gave  three  dollars,  and 
every  one  I  asked  gave  at  least  a  dollar.  If  Jim 
Thompson  does  as  well,  the  school  can  run  till  the 
first  of  March." 

"That's  long  enough.  The  sleighing'll  be  poor  by 
that  time.  What's  the  fun  over  in  your  end  of  the  bob, 
Deborah?  You're  selfish." 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  139 

"Get  something  going  yourself,  why  don't  you?" 

Reuben,  Tom  and  Elizabeth  got  on  at  the  next  stop. 

"Say,  Tom,"  cried  Amos  as  soon  as  they  were  well 
started  again,  "I  hope  you  haven't  forgotten  your 
candle,  Mary  Ann  didn't  bring  any  tonight." 

"Be  still,  Amos  Towne,"  cried  Mary  Ann,  "I  guess 
I  know  whose  candle  I  shall  sit  by  tonight  without 
asking  you." 

By  the  time  they  arrived  at  the  school-house  the 
bob  was  packed  snug  as  peas  in  a  pod,  all  laughing, 
giggling,  screaming,  whispering.  Sleighs  from  all 
directions  had  soon  emptied  their  loads  into  the  room% 
The  fire  had  only  just  been  started  in  the  stove  and 
was  making  a  great  sputter  to  get  ahead  of  the  cold. 
Amid  the  slapping  of  hands  and  stamping  of  feet  in 
the  gay  endeavor  to  stir  up  the  circulation,  remarks 
on  the  weather,  beaux,  and  new  dresses  passed  along 
from  ear  to  ear,  till  the  solid  hard  wood  logs  sent  out 
a  heat  that  drove  the  merrymakers  to  benches  in  an- 
other part  of  the  room,  while  late  arrivals  with  red 
noses  and  cold  hands  took  their  places. 

"Amos,  hold  over  here  so  I  can  light  my  candle," 
commanded  Deborah,  and  Amos  nothing  loth  reached 
his  candle  across  the  aisle. 

"Hold  still,  or  I'll  be  grown  up  before " 

"Hello,  there's  Mr.  Stillman  now,"  and  there  was 
a  call  to  order  as  a  tall  slim  youth  with  soft  gray  eyes, 
and  a  lock  of  fair  hair  hanging  stubbornly  over  his 
forehead,  raised  his  violin  to  his  chin.  He  drew  his 
well-rosined  bow  across  one  string  with  many  quav- 
ers and  slides  to  attract  attention.  A  few  words  of 
general  instruction,  the  page  announced,  and  the  les- 
son had  begun  with  a  violent  jerk  of  his  right  arm 
to  mark  the  time  and  silence  his  pupils  who  seemed 
to  have  gathered  quite  as  much  for  social  purposes 


140  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

as  for  love  of  art.  A  long  sound  followed  to  start 
everybody  on  the  right  tone,  then  a  peculiar  swing  of 
his  head  to  show  when  the  singers  were  to  begin. 
The  volume  of  sound  was  immense,  but  a  various 
shading  of  tone.  A  second  trial  brought  better  suc- 
cess. The  voices  attuned  themselves  to  the  instru- 
ment and  the  time  lagged  but  little  while  they  sang 
out  "do,  re,  me,"  their  first  lesson  being  to  raise  and 
fall  the  eight  notes. 

They  sang  the  scale  over  and  over  again  till  even 
the  dullest  head  had  comprehended  the  intervals. 
While  the  master  was  explaining  clef  and  staff  and 
lines  and  spaces,  Hannah  Jane  leaned  over  to  Eliza- 
beth and  whispered,  "Jim  Thompson  says  Isaac  Still- 
man  thumps  his  melodeon  till  the  keys  are  all  worn 
out.  What  do  you  think  of  that  for  thrift?  No  one'll 
want  to  marry  him ' 

Here  the  teacher  looked  very  solemn  at  Hannah 
Jane,  who  began  at  once  to  study  her  book. 

At  the  earliest  opportunity  Elizabeth  picked  up  the 
broken  thread  of  gossip:  "You  ought  to  be  ashamed 
to  call  Mr.  Stillman  Isaac." 

"Indeed  I'm  not;  he  should  be  thankful  I  don't  call 
him  Ike — everybody  outside  the  Singing-school  calls 
him  Ike  Stillman — or  Ikey." 

"Give  the  skips  do,  me,  sol,  do,  and  back  again,  do, 
sol,  me,  do"  commanded  the  teacher. 

All  made  the  skip  with  sufficient  readiness  but 
didn't  land  at  the  same  port.  "Try  again,  this  way, 
see?  Do,  me,  sol,  do — do,  sol,  me,  do." 

The  hardest  were  the  sharps  and  flats.  Some  said 
they  wouldn't  do  it  and  some  they  couldn't  do  it,  and 
a  jargon  like  the  confusion  at  Babel,  when  at  length 
they  tried  to  do  it. 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  141 

To  help  the  dull  along  in  finding  "do"  in  the  dif- 
ferent keys  he  gave  this  formula  for  sharps:  "Good 
dogs  all  eat  bad  food ;"  and  this  for  flats :  "Fannie 
Baker  eats  apple  dumplings  good."  The  uncertain 
grammar  and  lack  of  pertinence  were  stumbling- 
blocks  far  easier  to  surmount  than  the  purely  abstract 
relation  of  keys. 

At  last  recess  came  and  the  evening  was  half  gone 
—ten  minutes  for  visiting  and  eating  apples.  There 
was  a  great  hubbub  amid  a  general  changing  of  seats. 
Hannah  Jane  and  the  teacher,  whom  she  now  ad- 
dressed demurely  as  Mr.  Stillman,  were  whispering 
in  the  corner,  quite  unconscious  of  the  pairs  of  jealous 
eyes  turned  in  their  direction. 

After  recess  a  long  singing-book  called  "The  Shaum" 
was  passed,  from  which  they  learned  hymns.  There 
were  only  half  enough  to  go  around — a  sudden  snatch- 
ing of  candles,  shuffling  of  feet,  to  the  gay  accompani- 
ment of  laughter,  John  was  sitting  by  the  fair  Amelia, 
Amos  with  Deborah,  and  Tom  with  Mary  Ann.  Soon 
every  one  had  a  book,  indeed  one  or  two  had  been 
slyly  tucked  out  of  sight  not  to  interfere  with  the 
pairing  off  they  had  been  counting  on  all  evening. 

Everybody  sang — there  was  no  talk  in  that  day  of 
"having  no  voice"  for  singing,  or  "no  ear"  for  music. 

"Miss  Mary  Ann  and  Miss  Lucy,  please  come  for- 
ward," called  the  master,  "and  Mr,  Burley  and  Mr. 
Towne,"  and  the  quartet,  proud  and  a  little  uncom- 
fortable, walked  to  the  platform  amid  a  momentary 
pang  of  envy. 

After  a  time  the  singing  teacher  took  out  his  great 
silver  watch  and  discovered  it  was  nine  o'clock. 
"School's  dismissed,"  he  called  out,  and  a  rush  for 
the  closets  follows  amid  wild  cries  of  "Where's  my 
hood?"  "Those  are  my  mittens,  Mary  Ann  Towne!" 


142  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

"Who's  got  my  comforter?"  "Catch  him;  he's  got 
my  muff!"  Everybody  was  crowding  or  being 
crowded.  Elizabeth  found  her  shawl  but  her  tippet 
was  gone,  Hannah  Jane's  things  were  on  the  floor, 
Deborah  hunted  the  shelf  in  vain  for  her  hood.  But 
at  last  all  were  ready,  the  candles  were  put  out,  the 
fires  banked,  and  the  doors  locked. 

A  shake  of  bells,  a  cry  of  "All  aboard  for  the  river- 
road,  at  the  door,  the  boys  hustle  the  girls  into  the 
long  sleigh  and  wrap  them  warm  in  robes  and 
blankets,  and  so  the  crowd  faces  homeward.  In  the 
confusion  no  one  knows  how  Deborah  got  on  the  high 
front  seat  with  Amos,  or  how  each  boy  happened  to 
slide  into  just  he  place  he  would  have  chosen  of  all 
the  world.  The  shrill  sound  of  the  runners  vibrates 
in  the  frosty  air  and  there  is  an  occasional  jarring 
and  scaping  as  they  rub  over  some  rough  spot  or 
obtruding  boulder.  Jokes  fly  fast  and  the  soul  of 
many  a  youth  is  lifted  out  of  itself  by  a  gentle  hand- 
clasp quite  out  of  sight. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
(1)  GENERAL  TRAINING. 

EARLY  in  November,  when  the  year's  work  had  been 
brought  to  a  finish  by  the  harvest  and  there  was 
breathing  time,  came  General  Training  Day,  when  all 
went  to  the  muster  to  avoid  the  fine.  It  was  an  insti- 
tution that  following  the  War  of  1812.  Once  a  year 
every  man  capable  of  bearing  arms  met  at  an  ap- 
pointed place  for  drill  and  instruction  in  military 
matters.  Those  who  had  this  training  in  hand  fur- 
nished most  of  the  captains,  colonels,  majors,  and 
generals,  of  which  we  had  such  a  generous  sprinkling. 
The  standing  army  was  small  and  Training  Day  was 
designed  to  supply  the  country  with  capable  recruits 
in  case  of  war.  With  this  hard-working  people  of  few 
holidays  or  pleasures,  it  was  a  festive  time,  a  time  to 
meet,  and  gossip,  and  eat,  and  wear  one's  best  clothes 
— an  opportunity  for  jest  and  laughter  and  love-mak- 
ing. No  fathers  or  brothers  or  lovers  going  off  to 
danger  and  death,  but  to  look  handsome  in  fine  clothes, 
to  show  off  on  beautiful  horses,  and  look  brave  with 
guns  and  swords. 

The  farms  were  astir  before  daybreak.  Grandfather 
was  in  the  garret  hunting  his  old  1812  uniform,  flint- 
lock rifle,  and  powder-horn.  The  small  boys  were  put- 
ting the  last  touch  to  the  wooden  sword  or  gun  that 
had  occupied  their  time  for  weeks.  The  women  were 
filling  dinner-baskets  and  the  big  farm  wagons  were 
loading  with  the  whole  family  going  to  the  General 
Training.  A  two-seated  basket  chair  was  for  mother 


144  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

and  "grandpap,"  boards  across  the  wagon-box  were 
good  enough  for  the  rest. 

The  regular  business  of  the  day  was  at  a  standstill 
with  the  women  as  well  as  with  the  men.  The  merry 
shuttles  lay  idle  in  the  loom,  the  tailoress  dropped  her 
coat  and  the  goose  grew  cold  on  the  stove,  the  school- 
master regretfully  laid  down  his  ferrule,  and  the  house- 
wife hung  her  strings  of  apple  and  pumpkin  to  dry  in 
the  sun.  From  every  direction  the  gay  crowds  gath- 
ered to  hear  the  martial  music  of  drum  and  fife.  Old 
men  were  seeking  former  comrades,  youngsters  with 
hollyhock  or  pink  in  buttonhole  were  running  here 
and  there  casting  sheep's  eyes  at  the  girls  huddled  by 
the  roadside,  boys  piping  up  "Yankee  Doodle"  were 
picking  purple  clover  and  feeding  to  horses  adorned 
with  plumes  or  ribbons. 

Officers  in  blue  coats  with  epaulets  on  their  should- 
ers and  buttons  of  gold  or  shining  brass,  with  waving 
plumes  and  clanking  swords  pranced  on  young  horses 
scarcely  broken  to  the  bridle,  while  fife  and  drum  rent 
the  air  with  "Hail  Columbia !"  Gay-hearted  heroes 
were  they,  each  conscious  of  some  fair  worshiper 
across  the  way.  Up  and  down  the  line  dashed  the  or- 
derly, a  pack  of  boys  breathless  at  his  heels,  his  red  sash 
fluttering  in  the  wind. 

The  privates,  supposed  to  be  in  uniform  and  armed 
with  rifles,  carried  more  often  than  not  the  rusty  flint- 
lock of  some  Revolutionary  forbear,  or  occasionally, 
nothing  better  offering,  a  broom-stick,  would  proudly 
"Present  arms!  Shoulder  arms!  Ground  arms!" 
With  such  a  motley  crew,  looking  on  the  whole  rather 
as  a  frolic  than  as  serious  business,  the  officers  had 
their  troubles.  On  one  occasion  a  captain  unable  to 
keep  his  men  from  leaning  on  their  guns  or  sticks 
ahead  or  behind  the  line  after  he  had  straightened 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  145 

them  with  his  sword,  "Gentlemen,"  he  cried,  throw- 
ing off  his  cocked  hat,  feather,  red  sash,  coat  and 
sword,  and  kicking  them  aside  in  a  heap  on  the  ground, 
"form  the  line  and  keep  it  or  I'll  thrash  the  whole  com- 
pany !"  Instantly  the  line  was  straight  as  an  arrow, 
and  the  captain,  still  shaking  with  ire,  buckled  on  his 
sword  and  settled  his  hat. 

In  such  manner  did  the  great-grandfathers  of  the 
rising  generation  grow  familiar  with  military  terms 
and  gain  crude  acquaintance  with  army  discipline.  As 
for  taking  aim  and  hitting  the  mark,  they  had  been 
brought  up  on  that. 

The  supply  wagons  stood  near  the  camping  grounds 
with  rations  of  training  gingerbread,  and  cheese,  bis- 
cuits and  honey;  apple-carts  and  peddlers'  wagons 
selling  candy,  cakes,  and  drinks.  The  soldiers  ate  at  a 
long  board  table,  and  the  families  gathered  by  groups, 
uncovered  their  baskets  of  baked  chicken,  roast  pork, 
bread  and  butter,  cakes  and  cookies,  and  spread  the 
contents  on  a  table  improvised  by  laying  boards  across 
the  wagon-box.  Here  the  neighbors  ate  and  gossiped, 
exulted  and  dilated  and  expanded  in  the  congenial  at- 
mosphere of  talk. 

When  it  was  Training  Day  at  Ravenna  the  men 
drilled  in  the  plain  east  of  the  road  between  the  upper 
and  lower  villages.  From  the  hill  arising  abruptly  be- 
hind, the  women  and  children  looked  on  the  evolutions 
that  were  to  transform  farmers,  clerks,  merchants, 
traders,  doctors,  lawyers  and  preachers  into  soldiers 
worthy  of  the  wise  Government  under  which  they  lived. 

The  day  passed  quickly,  night  drew  on,  men  looked 
at  the  sun,  lifting  a  hand  to  shade  their  eyes,  for  few 
pockets  held  even  a  silver  watch  to  tick  the  hours,  say- 
ing: 

"It's  e'en  a'most  milkin'  time  now." 


146  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

Then  the  gala-crowds  and  would-be  soldiers  would 
disperse  in  vanishing  lines  over  the  hills  and  down 
the  valleys,  back  to  another  year  of  ploughing  and 
sowing  and  reaping,  of  milking,  and  eating  and  sleep- 
ing, of  church-going  and  wood-cutting  and  the  great 
Donation  Party.  Not  so  the  officers,  however.  These 
stopped  to  drink  each  other's  health  in  many  a  brim- 
ming glass  of  rum  and  toddy,  dwelling  with  great  relish 
on  their  own  exploits  and  expounding  with  more  or 
less  friction  the  whole  philosophy  of  success  in  war, 
with  much  gesticulation  and  retailing  of  hearsays 
come  down  with  unquestioned  authenticity  from  the 
War  of  1812. 

(2)  THE  DONATION  PARTY. 

When  the  crops  were  all  gathered  in  the  autumn  and 
the  weather  had  settled  down  to  a  steady  cold  and 
the  snow  was  well  beaten  in  the  roads,  then  the  Dona- 
tion Party  for  the  minister  was  in  order.  Here  the 
regular  church  members  came  in  touch  with  those 
occasional  attendants  from  miles  away  among  the  hills 
who  seldom  met  the  villagers  in  a  social  way  at  any 
other  time. 

The  fathers  and  mothers  came  in  the  afternoon  with 
gifts  of  money,  farm  products,  and  whatever  else  might 
be  useful  to  an  ordinary  family,  beside  baskets  of  food 
for  the  supper.  They  had  their  social  chat  somewhat 
interfered  with  by  the  fact  that  the  good  people  had 
dressed  up  for  the  occasion  in  clothes  they  were  not 
used  to.  But  they  made  the  best  of  the  restraint  and 
awkwardness  and  dragging  conversation,  and  no  one 
grudged  the  sacrifice  made  to  civilization  and  advancing 
manners,  though  even  politics  and  theology  could  at  first 
scarcely  stir  them  from  their  decent  lethargy. 

The  younger  women  bustled  about  the  kitchen  mak- 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  147 

ing  the  coffee,  warming  up  chicken-pie,  pushing  tables 
together,  and  by  the  time  supper  was  ready  every  one 
was  at  his  ease.  The  pastor  sat  at  the  head  of  the 
board,  which  fairly  creaked  under  its  load  of  good 
things,  and  no  one  dreamed  of  blushing  for  an  honest 
appetite.  The  glory  of  the  feast  was  the  pyramid  loaf 
of  fruit  cake,  white  with  frosting  and  surmounted  with 
a  tiny  evergreen  tree,  whose  branches  glistened  in  the 
candle-light  like  the  white  fields  outside  in  the  moon. 
This  was  not  cut  in  the  afternoon,  for  the  old  folks 
had  chicken-pie  instead,  but  it  stood  on  the  table  to 
be  admired  and  talked  about  and  guessed  upon — who 
had  made  it,  how  many  pounds  of  fruit  had  gone  in — 
how  heavy  it  was — did  it  weigh  as  much  as  the  one 
last  year — and  so  on.  In  the  evening  the  top  layers 
were  dealt  out  to  the  young  people,  while  the  big 
lower  layers  were  to  remain  for  the  minister's  family. 
The  donation  party  has  been  made  a  fruitful  subject 
for  ridicule,  but  "Laughing,"  says  a  sage,  "comes  from 
misapprehension ;  rightly  looked  at  there  is  no  laugh- 
able thing  under  the  sun."  And  when  I  remember 
such  gatherings  at  Parson  Ball's  house,  the  sweet- 
faced,  gentle-mannered  women  bringing  their  tithe  of 
good  things  from  stores  not  abundant,  more  than  gen- 
erous according  to  their  means,  it  is  still  beautiful  to 
me  spite  of  the  libraries  written  to  the  contrary.  A  re- 
poseful kindness  lighted  up  their  faces  indicating  how 
congenial  was  the  exchange  of  good  offices.  After 
supper  they  sat  in  the  parlor,  drifting  to  some  quiet 
corner  where  they  talked  of  home  affairs  and  village 
news.  Each  woman  had  on  a  black  silk  apron,  a  little 
cape  of  the  same  material  as  her  dress,  and  a  newly 
laundered  cap.  It  is  a  picture  on  which  those  who 
have  known  it  love  to  linger — the  homely  wrinkled 
faces  of  those  great-aunts  and  grandmothers,  shining 


148  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

with  the  light  of  warm  hearts  and  gentle  loving 
thoughts. 

"Mother  Carpeg,  have  you  heard  how  much  butter 
Patty  Ann  Silas  sold  from  her  one  cow  last  year?" 
asked  Mrs.  Buttonwood. 

"No,  but  I  suppose  she  has  beat  everybody  else  or 
she'd  not  be  talking." 

"One  hundred  and  sixty-one  pounds,  beside  what 
she  and  John  used." 

"Don't  talk  about  the  butter  Patty  Ann  Silas  uses! 
If  we  ate  bacon  gravy  on  our  bread  all  the  time, — well, 
I  never  skimp  our  folks  for  the  sake  of  a  big  story." 

"All  I've  to  say  is  that  when  Ella  Jane  and  I  dropped 
in  there  of  an  afternoon  two  weeks  ago  she  had  as  nice 
a  supper  as  I  ever  want  to  taste." 

"She's  a  prime  housekeeper,  I  don't  gainsay  you 
there,  but  awful  neat." 

"John  says  she  takes  the  shine  off  the  plates  scrap- 
ing 'em  before  she  puts  'em  in  the  dish-water." 

"She  mops  her  kitchen  floor  every  morning  and 
scours  it  till  it's  white  as  snow.  Then  after  dinner 
she  wipes  up  the  tracks  John  makes  when  he  comes 
in  at  noon." 

"Tracks  John  makes !  Why  he  spends  five  minutes 
cleaning  up  his  boots  every  time  he  comes  in  the  house, 
and  they  say  they're  clean  enough  to  walk  on  any- 
body's parlor  carpet." 

"John  says  a  fly  would  slip  up  on  her  windows." 

"They  say  slie  hangs  out  the  biggest  wash  of  the 
neighborhood." 

"How's  that?    Only  she  and  John— 

"Tildy  Ann  says  she  looks  out  and  sees  what  the 
others  have  on  the  line  and  if  she  hasn't  as  much  she 
goes  to  the  bureau  drawer,  takes  out  some  sheets, 
rinses  'em  in  the  blue  water  and  hangs  'em  up." 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  149 

Just  then  Ella  Jane  Dix  passed  by  to  the  other  room, 
and  Mrs.  Buttonwood  whispered: 

"You  ought  to  see  her  fingers,  they  are  that  pricked 
and  worn  binding  hats  for  her  brother  Jeremiah,  as  if 
they  had  been  drawn  across  a  hetchel;  oh,  and  say, 
she's  had  a  letter  from  Maria  Williams  saying  Mrs. 
Miles  is  sick  enough  of  that  Black  River  country,  just 
as  we  all  said  she'd  be — no  well  short  of  half  a  mile, 
no  trees,  no  nothing  like  we  have  in  Ravenna,  and  she 
wishes  she'd  never  left." 

The  donations  having  by  this  time  been  duly  re- 
corded opposite  the  name  of  the  giver,  they  were  ready 
to  go  home,  all  but  a  few  women  who  stayed  to  clear 
up  and  put  things  in  order  for  the  young  people  who 
were  to  come  in  the  evening. 

To  the  boys  and  girls  the  joy  of  the  evening  lay  in 
the  games  that  went  on  in  the  spare  room  upstairs. 
Youths  a  trifle  older  sought  a  certain  pair  of  bright 
eyes  and  an  obscure  corner  where  no  one  should  hear 
what  they  were  saying  and  above  all,  what  they  were 
not  saying;  others  were  telling  fortunes  from  the  cor- 
ners of  a  pocket  handkerchief,  while  the  lively  joking 
kind  ate  philopenas  and  exchanged  favors;  meantime 
the  silent  and  bashful  filled  all  the  passageways  and 
blocked  the  doors  until  getting  through  was  like  run- 
ning into  a  tangle  of  blackberry  briars. 

The  small  children  had  their  part  in  the  donation 
party  on  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day.  Everybody 
took  something — Billy  Bates  once  took  a  panful  of 
turnovers  and  was  greeted  with  screams  of  delight. 
The  children,  whose  share  was  always  the  second  table, 
found  it  no  hardship,  and  played  and  fought  and  sang 
and  ate  quite  as  if  their  world  was  not  overshadowed 
by  elders. 


150  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

Some  money,  a  store  of  varied  articles,  and  a  house 
torn  up  from  garret  to  cellar  was  what  the  pastor's 
family  looked  upon  when  it  was  all  over.  This,  and  a 
fund  of  good  will,  kindly  feeling,  and  spirit  of  mutual 
helpfulness  such  as  could  not  but  oil  the  wheels  of  the 
new  year  kept  everything  good  natured  for  another 
twelvemonth  at  least. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 
DEACON  LEE — THE  PASSING  OF  THE  PURITAN. 

MY  father,  beloved  name !  gentle,  gracious,  kind.  If 
he  was  sometimes  positive  and  stern,  it  was  because  the 
Right  was  in  clanger,  as  I  thought  any  one  should  see. 
When  I  was  eager  about  something  and  he  shook  his 
head,  "Not  today,  my  child,"  I  never  doubted  his  hon- 
esty and  good-will.  I  was  once  more  in  touch  with 
that  mystic  Being  in  which  all  Ravenna  was  but  a  tale 
that  is  told  and  a  watch  in  the  night.  I  felt  that  in  some 
inexplicable  way  my  wish  might  have  upset  that  vague 
balance,  to  maintain  which  we  had  been  born  into  the 
world.  However  intangible  this  something  that  guides 
us  for  our  good  along  strangely  thorny  paths,  however 
shadowy  my  feeling  of  our  human  limits,  what  I  knew 
clearly  was  that  my  father  and  I  were  alike  helpless,  and 
that  although  he  knew  so  much  more  than  I  that  he  had 
found  it  to  be  in  the  end  good  and  true  and  even  beau- 
tiful, yet  our  disappointments  were  all  equally  his  and 
mine,  and  this  was  almost  next  to  having  no  disappoint- 
ments at  all. 

His  chances  at  education  had  been  scant — some  winters 
at  the  district  school,  some  months  under  a  government 
surveyor,  but  there  had  been  no  lack  of  moral  training. 
Parents  used  to  hold  their  children  as  treasures  lent 
from  the  Lord,  for  whom  they  must  render  account  on 
the  last  day,  and  their  zeal  in  the  office  was  like  a 
Divine  fire  touching  with  points  of  magic  light  what  had 
otherwise  been  mean  and  common  in  their  lot.  Natives 
of  an  ideal  world — where  we  today  feel  restless  and  ill 
at  ease,  they  walked  and  talked  unconscious.  In  that 


152  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

world  God  waits  on  man  and  not  a  word  or  act  is  slight, 
or  trivial,  or  insignificant. 

Side  by  side  with  the  thirst  for  God  was  the  thirst 
for  knowledge.  But  while  religion  is  without  money  and 
without  price,  education  is  a  luxury.  Only  one  in  the 
family  could  be  sent  to  college.  Tradition  determined 
that  this  should  be  the  eldest  son,  who  was  thus  elected 
to  enter  the  ministry.  So  while  my  uncle  was  fitted  for 
Hamilton  and  entered  definitely  on  a  career  of  thought 
and  study,  my  father  began  his  four-year  apprenticeship 
in  the  neighboring  woollen-mill. 

But  blood  tells  in  spite  of  untoward  conditions.  In  it 
flow  the  hopes  and  convictions  of  our  ancestors,  and  the 
Revolutionary  colonels,  the  provincial  governors,  and 
especially  the  dissenting  ministers  and  clergymen  of  the 
past  were  not  to  be  silenced  by  smells  of  grease  and 
steaming  wool.  My  father's  will  was  bent  on  having 
some  share  in  the  broader  outlook  that  comes  with  read- 
ing and  contact  with  great  minds.  Year  by  year  he  and 
my  mother,  who  had  been  well  educated  for  her  day, 
followed  the  acts  of  Congress,  read  the  speeches  of  John 
Quincy  Adams,  of  Clay,  Webster  and  Calhoun,  the  fiery 
arguments  of  Garrison  and  Wendell  Phillips;  together 
they  studied  the  Bible  with  the  help  of  histories,  dic- 
tionaries, and  commentaries,  and,  with  an  occasional  book 
on  travel,  or  on  some  great  political,  moral,  or  industrial 
issue  in  our  own  country  or  in  England,  he  became  in  the 
end  a  well-read  man  for  his  station  in  life. 

I  think  no  hungry  ambition  for  wealth  or  fame  ever 
tortured  his  soul.  With  a  clear  conscience  he  was  able 
to  provide  good  things  for  wife  and  family  according  to 
the  accepted  standard,  and  life  seemed  satisfactory. 
Death  had  come  only  to  the  aged  of  his  kin,  who  had 
passed  the  gates  by  the  sure  light  of  faith,  and  were 


now  waiting  for  him  in  the  blessed  beyond;  then  why 
should  they  be  mourned? 

He  was  now  forty-five  years  old,  his  farm  of  a  hun- 
dred acres  was  paid  for,  he  was  laying  aside  a  small  sur- 
plus each  year,  and  had  the  joy  peculiar  to  farmers  of 
seeing  his  land  steadily  improve  in  value  under  his  care- 
ful management.  When  in  October  the  dairy  buyer 
came  airily  along  in  his  sulky  flourishing  his  long  steel 
tryer,  testing  the  quality  of  butter  or  cheese  and  offering 
a  fair  price,  he  always  sold,  never  waiting  for  a  possible 
higher  market,  and  so  was  never  caught,  like  some  of 
his  neighbors,  with  the  season's  output  on  his  hands. 

He  was  not  only  a  farmer  but  a  surveyor  as  well, 
and  his  services  were  often  sought  in  settling  disputes 
on  boundaries,  or  on  waterways  and  mill-rights,  and  al- 
though he  was  never  a  real  "Square"  like  his  father,  he 
enjoyed  about  the  same  prestige  among  his  neighbors. 

He  had  always  been  temperate,  as  indeed  a  man  who 
takes  God  for  his  constant  companion  must  be,  but  wine 
had  been  passed  at  his  own  wedding  in  1821  in  the  fine 
chased  glass  loving-cup  which  stood  for  so  many  years 
on  the  mantel  over  the  fire-place  in  the  parlor  with  a  full 
decanter  by  its  side  ready  to  be  offered  to  the  minister 
or  doctor  or  friend  who  might  -drop  in.  The  cup  held 
a  quart,  which  was  quite  enough  for  a  large  company, 
as  each  guest  would  lift  it  to  his  mouth  by  the  two  han- 
dles, take  only  a  sip,  and  pass  it  on  to  his  next  neighbor. 

But  all  this  became  a  thing  of  the  past  when  the  wave 
of  enthusiasm  for  total  abstinence  was  swept  through 
the  country  by  the  Washingtonian  societies  in  the  years 
1836-1840.  He  was  set  against  all  that  corrupts,  en- 
slaves, or  brutalizes  men,  and  judged  that  a  custom  so 
largely  social  in  its  nature  takes  away  the  support  to- 
ward a  healthy  life  which  society  owes  to  its  weaker 
members.  He  felt  his  responsibility  like  Paul — "If  meat 


154 

make  my  brother  to  offend,  I  will  eat  no  meat  while  the 
world  standeth."  The  suffering  and  oppressed  cried  in 
his  soul  day  and  night  demanding  his  championship  in 
word  and  deed. 

Of  course  the  stand  he  took  brought  him  many  a 
curse,  but  even  the  tavern-keeper  and  his  patrons  who 
hated  him  and  his  views  had  absolute  faith  in  his  word, 
and  though  they  would  not  follow  his  advice,  would 
send  post-haste  for  Deacon  Lee  when  real  trouble  came. 
He  eased  the  death-bed  of  not  a  few  such  by  pointing 
the  way  into  that  other  world  that  had  so  little  con- 
cerned them  until  then. 

This  was  the  time  when  the  anti-slavery  question  was 
at  burning  heat.  It  drew  him  like  another  self  into  its 
maelstrom  of  moral  and  political  tumult,  and  he  became 
an  abolitionist  when  it  cost  him  the  good  opinion  of 
neighbors,  the  rebuke  of  political  allies,  and  the  gibes 
and  taunts  of  "Northern  men  with  southern  principles." 
"You  throw  away  your  vote  when  you  cast  it  for  John 
P.  Hale,"  they  said,  but  as  it  was  a  question  of  four 
million  votes  his  own  seemed  a  trivial  matter. 

Runaway  slaves  coming  up  from  the  South  by  the 
underground  railroad  often  stopped  at  our  house,  where 
they  were  kept  over  night  and  then  helped  on  to  reach 
Garret  Smith  in  the  next  county  north.  I  didn't  enjoy 
these  visits,  whether  on  account  of  Uncle  Joseph's  insinu- 
ations that  they  might  be  brothers  and  sisters  or  from 
sharing  my  Grandmother's  sentiments,  who  never  in 
her  life  felt  that  all  men  were  really  equal.  She  could 
think  calmly  of  the  negro  and  his  wrongs  only  if  he 
stayed  in  the  South,  where  he  belonged,  miles  away 
from  her,  but  when  he  intruded  his  shiny  black  face  and 
soft  dark  eyes  on  her  own  province  she  was  roused  to 
personal  revolt  that  could  take  no  account  of  general 
issues.  During  the  exciting  times  of  the  Kansas-Ne- 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  155 

braska  Bill  she  took  great  relish  in  nicknaming  our  little 
black  kitten  (and  she  hated  all  cats)  Little  Nebraska 
Bill,  which  she  ordinarily  shortened  to  Nebrax. 

My  father's  passion  for  equal  opportunity  to  every 
man,  whatever  his  race  or  color  or  sect,  was  second  only 
to  his  passionate  acceptance  of  the  one  God  and  the  per- 
fect pattern  set  for  human  life  by  Jesus  of  Nazareth. 
Under  his  air  of  quiet  reserve  always  smouldered  a  fer- 
vid jealousy  for  God  and  the  Right.  I  still  remember, 
not  without  an  unpleasant  thrill,  one  occasion  on  which 
I  saw  this  inner  fire  burst  forth.  There  were  revival 
meetings  in  the  Methodist  Church,  and  my  Aunt  Ade- 
line had  planned  to  go  early.  She  came  into  the  room, 
bonnet  and  shawl  on,  to  say  good-bye. 

"Adeline,"  said  my  father,  "are  you  going  to  this 
meeting  to  seek  your  soul's  salvation?" 

Adeline  had  great  respect  for  her  brother-in-law,  who 
was  old  enough  to  be  her  father,  but  his  rough  solemn 
way  tied  her  tongue ;  she  couldn't  answer  in  the  spirit 
and  temper  in  which  the  question  was  put,  she  would 
not  be  irreverent,  so  she  stood  by  the  window  and  looked 
out,  seeing  nothing,  saying  nothing. 

"Adeline,  what  is  the  chief  business  of  life?  Just  an- 
swer that  question." 

It  seemed  to  me,  a  child  of  six  or  seven,  that  she  stood 
hours  by  the  window.  There  was  a  tense  uncomfortable 
atmosphere  in  the  room.  I  wondered  why  someone  didn't 
speak  and  let  things  be  as  usual.  I  was  almost  ready 
to  say  something  myself,  but  I  kept  to  my  book. 

There  she  stood  by  the  window,  silent.  She  wouldn't 
disregard  him  by  going  without  an  answer,  and  so  she 
kept  standing  there  looking  out  of  the  window.  My 
mother  came  through  the  room,  glanced  in  a  plaintive 
way  at  both,  and  passed  out.  Still  the  grip  never  let 
up.  The  sun  was  fast  slipping  behind  the  hills,  she  must 


156 

say  something.  All  he  had  done  for  her  rose  up  like 
an  accusation;  she  was  a  Christian,  she  had  always  been 
one  so  far  as  she  knew ;  why  couldn't  she  say  so  ? 

At  last  there  came  faintly,  with  the  effort  of  a  drown- 
ing man : 

"I  know  it  is;  and  I  do  want — I  take  Him — Jesus,  I 
mean — to  be  my  Saviour." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,  Adeline,  and  I  hope 
the  decision  is  made  once  for  all." 

He  believed  in  having  set  times  and  seasons  for  per- 
forming his  duties,  not  only  those  of  planting,  sowing 
and  reaping,  but  for  cultivating  the  inner  vision,  and  for 
pondering  the  invisible  things  of  the  spirit.  I  can  even 
now  see  him  sitting  in  some  retired  corner,  his  Bible  or 
Finney's  sermons  in  his  hand,  oblivious  to  passing  things. 
He  would  read  a  little,  then  raising  his  eyes  as  his  mind 
filled  with  the  great  thoughts,  a  far-away  look  would 
creep  over  his  face — he  was  walking  with  God  in  some 
distant  Eden. 

He  was  a  man  of  genuine  and  sometimes  terrible  earn- 
estness. At  intervals  I  thought  his  moral  sense  bordered 
on  the  tyrannous  conscience,  and  indeed,  born  in  the 
eighteenth  century,  he  lived  not  far  removed  from  the 
rugged  Puritan  ideals.  Family  traditions  which  are  now 
strange  and  unaccountable  were  living  facts  to  him.  His 
grandfather — whom  he  well  remembered — a  stern  old 
minister  in  Lyme — on  learning  that  his  daughter  Eunice, 
the  only  giddy  girl  in  generations,  had  gone  to  a  tavern- 
ball,  went  straight  to  the  place  with  his  wife  Abiah, 
kneeled  down  in  the  midst  of  the  astonished  throng  and 
prayed  for  the  souls  of  the  whole  hell-bound  company. 
When  he  got  up  some  were  already  slinking  off,  the  more 
impressionable  were  in  tears,  and  the  party  quite  broke 
lip.  Every  one  was  concerned  for  his  soul's  salvation, 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  157 

and  the  episode  was  followed  by  a  revival  which  threat- 
ened to  bring  all  Lyme  into  the  fold  of  the  regenerate. 

His  grandmother  Abiah,  a  woman  of  great  dignity 
and  of  firm  conviction,  used  often  to  arise  in  her  seat 
when  her  husband  had  finished  his  sermon  and  with  sol- 
emn tone  and  impressive  mien,  utter  some  maxim  ta 
clinch  his  argument.  Once  it  was,  "What  I  say  unto 
you,  I  say  unto  all,  watch !  Watch  against  sin  and 
guard  the  door  of  duty."  Again,  being  weighed  down  in 
spirit  with  a  sense  of  the  guilt  61  unbelief,  she  arose 
and  solemnly  pronounced,  "Unbelief !  Unbelief !  O  that 
cursed  unbelief!"  and  sat  down. 

Feeling  keenly  his  own  lack  of  education,  my  father 
was  glad  to  help  his  wife's  numerous  brothers  and  sisters 
to  the  advantages  of  select  schools,  and  to  make  possible 
for  the  younger  ones  at  least  a  training  at  some  higher 
institution.  Wherever  they  went  they  carried  with  them 
the  motto  that  had  governed  his  own  life,  "There  is  no 
swerving  from  the  line  of  right  that  may  not  lead  eter- 
nally astray."  So  often  indeed  was  this  adage  dinned 
in  the  ears  of  those  under  his  charge  that  in  later  life 
the  one  was  sure  to  suggest  the  other. 

When  the  call  came  for  money  to  establish  Oberlin 
College  with  its  liberal  provision  for  the  education  of 
both  sexes  and  for  persons  of  every  race  and  color,  he 
gave  generously,  taking  in  return  scholarships  which  he 
later  restored  to  the  institution.  One  of  these  scholar- 
ships he  offered  to  my  cousin — a  hot-headed  young  aris- 
tocrat— whose  father  and  mother  were  dead,  and  who 
had  recently  come  to  make  his  home  with  us.  Joseph, 
though  positively  hungry  for  an  education,  scorned  to 
get  it  among  negroes,  and  my  father,  shocked  at  such 
notions  and  equally  stubborn,  refused  to  give  him  one 
cent  to  go  elsewhere.  Later  he  left  our  house  and  drifted 
south  to  a  brother  in  Memphis.  It  is  interesting  to  note 


158 

that  in  the  end  he  became  a  clergyman  in  Mississippi, 
where  he  devoted  the  best  part  of  his  life  to  reclaiming 
convicts,  the  inmates  of  prisons,  and  the  lowest  of  the 
negroes  and  poor  whites. 

My  father  set  a  high  value  on  the  practical  side  of 
Christianity.  An  old  man  verging  on  the  nineties  re- 
cently remarked,  "I  never  saw  any  one  take  the  poor  and 
desolate,  clean  them  up,  teach  them  industrious  habits, 
and  instill  self-respect  equal  to  Deacon  Lee's  folks. 
Many  an  unpromising  chore-boy  who  received  in  their 
kitchen  his  only  instruction  in  religion  and  morals,  in 
reading  and  public  affairs,  in  table  manners  and  polite- 
ness, has  since  become  a  man  of  note — a  valuable  citi- 
zen in  his  community. 

My  parents  took  great  interest  in  the  church,  where  in 
that  day  all  benevolence,  intellectual  growth,  and  reform 
had  its  beginning.  They  visited  all  the  members,  even 
those  that  lived  miles  away,  invited  them  to  their  house, 
showed  them  a  comfortable  home  and  a  better  way  of 
doing  things  than  they  were  perhaps  acquainted  with, 
took  an  interest  in  their  plans  for  their  children,  sug- 
gested further  education,  and  a  way  of  providing  the 
means  to  get  it. 

It  was  where  moral  questions  were  concerned  that  my 
father  was  chiefly  dogmatic.  He  could  scarcely  allow 
an  opposite  opinion  for  fear  Truth  be  distorted.  Some- 
times this  habit  asserted  itself  in  purely  secular  matters. 
For  instance,  when  my  cousin  advanced  the  idea  that 
steam  would  yet  serve  the  farmer's  needs,  the  old  man 
who  had  trudged  behind  his  plow  for  forty  years,  had 
mown  the  grass;,  and  raked  and  pitched  the  hay  by  hand, 
resented  the  preposterous  notion,  and  brought  his  great 
fi$t  thundering  on  the  table  in  proof  that  it  could  not  be 
done.  Both  were  chips  from  the  same  stubborn  block, 
the  youth  and  the  greybeard,  and  each  held  to  his  view 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  159 

with  tenacity  and  some  rancor.  But  my  father  lived  to 
see  stranger  things,  lived  to  see  the  flail  and  the  fanning- 
mill  become  a  memory,  and  the  threshing  -  machine  a 
household  word. 

His  life  was  not  without  its  great  and  even  tragic 
disappointments.  The  first  savings  he  had  laid  away 
after  paying  for  his  farm  he  had  invested  in  timber  land 
in  a  neighboring  State,  with  prospect  of  large  returns. 
Mr.  Banning,  a  prominent  business  man  of  Ravenna,  had 
told  him  of  the  opportunity  and  the  two  had  become 
partners.  Roads  were  poor  and  rough  and  Mixton  sev- 
enty-five miles  distant,  remote  indeed  when  stage-coach 
and  horseback  were  the  only  means  of  travel  through 
a  district  for  the  most  part  wild  and  unsettled.  Rumors 
drifted  along  after  a  time  that  all  was  not  going  well  at 
the  lumber  camp;  then  certain  word  that  not  only  was 
his  property  there  in  danger,  but  his  farm  as  well.  Care 
drove  sleep  from  his  eyes,  a  family  council  decided  he 
should  be  on  the  ground  before  his  partner  should  get 
wind  of  what  he  was  up  to.  It  was  midnight  when  this 
decision  was  reached.  A  lunch  was  got  ready  as  quickly 
as  possible,  Stephen  was  called  to  feed  and  curry  the 
General — the  best  saddle-horse  in  the  stable — and  at  one 
o'clock  my  father  was  on  the  road. 

There  was  little  rest  in  the  house  that  night,  and  morn- 
ing brought  Uncle  Adams  with  the  bad  news  that  Mr. 
Banning  had  been  seen  leaving  the  village  early  the  even- 
ing before  in  an  open  buggy  accompanied  by  the  lawyer. 
There  could  be  no  doubt  that  he  too  had  heard  the  rumors 
and  feared  his  partner  might  forestall  him  and  spoil  his 
little  game.  There  were  two  possibilities  pointed  out  by 
Uncle  Adams  that  gave  us  a  glimmer  of  hope.  The 
General  had  great  endurance,  his  load  was  relatively 
light,  and  bad  roads  are  never  such  an  obstacle  to  a 
horse  as  to  a  carriage.  The  second  hope  lay  in  the  fact 


160  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

that  having  left  town  on  the  night  before  they  wouldn't 
know  that  my  father  was  so  close  behind  and  they  might 
spend  unnecessary  time  in  eating  and  sleeping. 

The  week  passed  slowly;  we  couldn't  hope  for  news 
until  the  traveler  should  return.  At  last,  on  the  seventh 
day,  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  my  father  rode  up. 

The  General's  fire  was  all  gone,  he  was  splashed  with 
mud,  his  gallop  was  little  more  than  a  spiritless  walk, 
and  he  swayed  as  if  uncertain  of  his  footing.  The  rider 
dismounted,  gave  the  horse  to  Stephen  who  came  eagerly 
running  in  from  a  near-by  field,  then  he  came  in  to  us. 

"It's  better  than  we  feared,"  he  said  to  my  mother, 
as  he  sank  in  a  chair,  muddy,  and  thin,  and  old.  While 
Aunt  Adeline  got  ready  some  coffee  and  a  bit  of  a  lunch, 
he  washed  and  changed  his  clothes,  and  when  he  had 
eaten  something  we  were  all  ready  for  the  story. 

"Yes,  I  passed  'em,"  and  a  twinkle  shot  for  a  moment 
into  his  eye  duffed  with  anxiety  and  lack  of  sleep.  "It 
was  the  second  night  on  the  road.'  I  was  going  through 
Lennox  about  midnight  and  stopped  at  the  tavern  for  a 
bite  to  eat  and  something  for  the  General.  I  saw  the 
buggy  in  the  yard  and  asked  whose  it  was.  We  were  out 
of  there  in  ten  minutes.  I  suppose  they  were  all  beat 
out  for  a  little  sleep;  the  man  said  he  was  to  call  them 
by  three  in  the  morning.  The  General  and  I  didn't  waste 
much  time  eating  or  sleeping  from  there  to  Mixton,  and 
I  got  to  the  camp  just  five  hours  ahead.  I  got  a  lawyer 
and  the  business  was  all  done  when  the  others  arrived. 
I've  saved  the  farm  anyway." 

On  investigation,  the  lawyer  had  found  evidence  of 
intended  fraud  that  brought  Mr.  Banning  in  danger  of 
the  law.  "Deacon,"  he  said,  "we  can  put  your  partner 
where  the  dogs  won't  bite."  But  retaliation,  even  when 
it  was  a  matter  of  strict  justice,  was  no  part  of  my 
father's  creed.  He  thought  of  the  sorrow  and  mortifi- 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  161 

cation  that  would  come  to  a  respected  and  innocent 
family,  of  the  tainted  name  to  a  man  who  had  hitherto 
stood  well  in  the  community.  It  was  settled  quietly,  the 
timber  land  was  lost,  but  the  farm  remained  free  of 
mortgage. 

Again  the  savings  put  away  for  the  rainy  day  disap- 
peared in  western  town  bonds.  A  clever  citizen  of  Ot- 
tawa, Illinois,  having  got  to  the  State  Legislature  dis- 
covered there  was  no  record  of  the  second  reading  of  the 
bill  to  bond  the  town,  so  that  the  city,  if  it  wished,  could 
in  law  disclaim  its  responsibilities,  and  make  all  the  de- 
sired improvements  out  of  these  ill-gotten  gains  without 
its  costing  the  citizens  a  cent.  And  in  this  wholesale 
manner  did  the  town  of  Ottawa,  Illinois,  set  up  in  its 
midst  the  god  of  graft.  I  have  often  wondered  whether 
taxes  were  still  as  low  as  the  morals  in  the  town  of 
Ottawa. 

Later  still,  when  a  citizen  of  Ravenna  invented  a  lock 
that  promised  well,  my  father,  wishing  to  foster  home  in- 
dustry, put  a  considerable  amount  into  a  factory.  When 
this  had  swallowed  practically  all  the  savings  the  town 
afforded,  it  died,  and  contrary  to  all  philosophy,  carried 
its  goods  along  with  it. 

But  none  of  these  misfortunes  were  in  the  end  a  real 
or  lasting  grief.  That  was  reserved  for  his  old  age, 
when  the  young  minister  of  his  church  brought  in  new 
ideas  concerning  Christian  faith  and  doctrine  that 
seemed  to  him  subversive  of  the  true  foundation.  The 
latter  was  popular  wijh  the  young,  and  his  coming  had 
opened  up  a  whole  undreamed  world  of  thought  to  many 
of  them.  My  father's  ideas  and  those  of  his  generation 
were  scholastic,  centuries  apart  from  this  modern  divine 
with  his  pleasing  personality,  his  city-bred  wife,  sweet, 
gentle,  with  fine  sensibilities,  an  intimate  knowledge  of 
birds  and  flowers,  a  love  of  dumb  animals,  and  his  chil- 


162  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

dren  with  their  pretty  manners,  fine  clothes,  and  lace 
collars.  He  helped  to  place  books  and  magazines  in  the 
families  of  his  congregation,  talked  of  the  scientific  point 
of  view,  and  gave  free  and  remote  interpretations  of  the 
Bible. 

Beliefs  clashed;  and  when  the  test  came,  a  little  over 
half  of  the  church  members  voted  for  him  to  stay.  Grad- 
ually the  old  part  of  the  congregation  drifted  to  other 
places  of  worship.  My  father  felt  himself  no  longer  at 
home  in  the  church  which  he,  more  than  any  living  mem- 
ber, had  helped  to  build  and  maintain  for  thirty  years. 
When  he  left  at  last  it  was  with  the  consciousness  of  per- 
forming a  duty,  of  living  up  to  what  he  conceived  to  be 
the  eternal  plan  of  salvation. 

His  last  days  were  pleasant  and  full  of  quiet  honor 
among  a  strange  people  in  a  distant  State.  Among  them 
he  was  known  as  "Father  Lee."  He  died  at  the  age  of 
seventy-seven,  departing  like  a  traveler  to  his  home-land. 
His  last  words  were  to  my  mother;  "I  am  ready  to  go; 
I  have  no  wish  to  live  longer,  but  to  wait  on  you  when 
you  are  feeble." 

I  have  much  to  thank  God  for  in  the  memory  of  my 
parents,  the  constant  inspiration  of  their  unselfish  char- 
acter. It  was  not  what  they  said,  but  what  I  knew  them 
to  be  that  gave  them  their  power  to  mould  my  life  and 
the  many  lives  beside. 


CHAPTER  XX. 
THE  CLASH  OF  THE  OLD  AND  NEW. 

"ACHSAH,  are  you  going  to  teach  Jennet  to  spin?" 
asked  Grandmother  one  day.  "She's  twelve,  and'll  never 
get  to  be  a  housekeeper  if  she  doesn't  begin  pretty  soon. 
What  ever  will  become  of  her  and  hers  for  stockings 
and  blankets  if  she  doesn't  know  how  to  card  and  spin? 
She'll  be  nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  slut  and  a  slat- 
tern ;  and  why  don't  you  get  her  some  pretty  new  dresses, 
and  send  her  to  a  school  where  she'll  learn  genteel 
manners  ?" 

"Why  mother,  things  aren't  as  black  as  that,  are  they? 
Jennet  has  learned  to  knit  and  has  already  six  pairs  of 
stockings  of  her  own  make  laid  away  in  her  drawer. 
She  has  one  bed-quilt  done  and  another  ready  for  the 
frames.  She  can  hem-stitch  and  sew  a  beautiful  over- 
and-over  seam.  In  these  days  it  isn't  necessary  for  a 
girl  to  spin  and  weave  as  it  was  when  you  were  young. 
The  factories  make  such  good  cloth,  really  much  better 
than  we  can,  and  the  cotton  thread  we  buy,  you  must  o\vn 
it  is  smoother  than  our  linen." 

"I  can  double  and  twist  yarn  on  the  big  wheel  now, 
Grandmother,"  urged  Jennet,  feeling  somehow  as  if  she 
were  on  trial  and  must  produce  testimony;  "I  helped 
Aunt  Betsy  warp  a  piece  for  blankets  last  fall ;  yes,  and 
I  filled  nearly  all  her  spools  and  quills  for  the  yarn  car- 
pet she  made .  for  Mrs.  Covert.  I  know  more  than  you 
think  I  do."  ; 

Grandmother  nodded  approvingly,  but  didn't  yield  her 
point. 

"To  be  a  clever  girl,  Jennet,  you  must  learn  all  your 


164  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

mother  and  Grandmother  know,  and  as  much  more  as 
possible." 

"But  you  must  remember,  mother,  she  is  learning  a 
great  deal  more  than  we  ever  had  to.  She's  taking  les- 
sons on  the  melodeon,  and  has  to .  practice  her  hour 
every  day." 

"Yes,  and  I  suppose  she'll  soon  be  piping  up  for  some 
jack-in-the-box  to  dance — a  nice  thing  for  a  deacon's 
daughter !" 

"I  can  play  Bonaparte  crossing  the  Rhine,  Grand- 
mother, and  the  Spanish  Patriots'  March,  and  sing  and 
play  Nellie  Ely  and  Ben  Bolt  and  The  Blind  Girl." 

"And  she's  going  to  a  select  school,"  continued  my 
mother,  anxious  to  defend  her  plans,  "where  beside  the 
three  R's  she  studies  physiology  and  English  composition, 
and  has  lessons  in  wool  embroidery — you  never  had  that." 

"No,  thank  my  stars!  but  I  could  spin  the  finest  yarn 
in  Old  Lyme,  and  no  one  in  Connecticut  could  make 
crullers,  mince  pie  or  bread  to  beat  mine.  I  see  plainly, 
with  her  music,  embroidery,  and  phy-si-ol-o-gy  she'll  be 
a  know-nothing,  and  have  no  blankets,  coverlets,  or  linen 
sheets,  no  bed-ticks,  no  towels,  no  nothing  to  set  up 
housekeeping.  I  pity  the  man  who  will  ever  be  her 
husband !" 

"I  hope  it  will  be  many  a  long  year  before  she  leaves 
this  house,"  said  my  mother  gently.. 

"If  you  weren't  always  giving  to  those  sisters  of  yours, 
we  could  begin  filling  Jennet's  chest  now,  and  be  pro- 
vided against  the  day  of  her  wedding." 

"Her  father  is  able  to  buy  her  things,  mother,  when  the 
day  comes,  and  I  hope  it  is  a  long  way  off." 

"Oh  well,  if  you  won't  hear  reason,  you  won't,  ^nd 
I  guess  I'd  better  go,"  and  Grandmother  sailed  loftily 
out  of  the  room. 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  165 

But  she  had  by  no  means  given  up,  and  when  she  saw 
my  father  the  next  day,  she  said,  "Mathew,  if  you'll  give 
me  some  wool  to  make  Dutch  blankets,  I'll  teach  Jennet 
to  spin.  She  shall  not  bring  disgrace  on  the  name  if  I 
can  help  it." 

Jennet  had  no  objections.  She  had  watched  Grand- 
mother at  the  big  wheel  as  she  ran  back  and  forth  from 
the  spindle,  the  roll  of  wool  in  her  hand,  pulling  and 
twisting  it  into  a  smooth  thread,  and  it  looked  quite  at- 
tractive to  the  restless  mind  with  its  restless  little  hands 
and  body. 

"When  I  turn  the  big  wheel  as  much  as  I  like,"  she 
said  to  herself,  "and  the  reel  snaps  every  forty  rounds 
to  make  the  knot — why  I  shall  make  a  skein  with  twenty 
knots" — it  seemed  nearly  finished  already. 

When  the  rolls  came  from  the  woollen  mill  the  old 
lady  of  eighty  began  teaching  the  childish  hands  the 
mystery  of  pulling  them  into  thread  with  one  hand  and 
turning  the  wheel  with  the  other,  twisting  all  into  stout 
yarn. 

Jennet  was  glad  when  the  spindle  was  full  and  the 
reel  set  down  in  front,  for  when  forty  threads  were 
on  the  reel  the  snapper  buzzed  so  for  a  knot. 

After  the  most  painstaking  instruction  in  the  several 
steps  of  spinning,  Grandmother  left  and  went  off  to  the 
next  room.  Jennet  took  the  roll  in  one  hand,  giving 
the  wheel  a  swift  turn  with  the  other,  but  forgetting  to 
walk  backwards  in  the  meantime,  the  wool  twisted  into 
a  thick  rope  and  wouldn't  pull  into  a  thread  at  all.  She 
broke  it  off  and  tried  again  with  no  better  success. 

"Grandma,  come  quick,"  she  called.  "There's  some- 
thing got  into  the  yarn,  and  it  won't  pull  out." 

"Child,  you  must  go  carefully.  Turn  the  wheel  and 
pull  on  the  roll  at  the  same  time,  and  step  backwards. 
You  must  learn  to  think  of  two  things  at  once." 


166  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

"I  can't!  Oh,  I  can't!  and  besides  it  isn't  two  things, 
it's  three.  I  wish  I  could  make  the  thing  go  whiz !  whiz ! 
the  way  you  do,  and  the  yarn  come  smooth  and  the 
spindle  grow  fat  right  away." 

"Patience,  Jennet,  Rome  wasn't  built  in  a  day." 

But  the  process  was  long  and  tiresome.  She  would 
have  skipped  out  to  see  the  boys  grind  the  scythes,  she 
would  even  have  offered  to  turn  the  grindstone,  hard  as 
it  was,  rather  than  go  back  to  the  wheel,  but  Grand- 
mother, once  her  mind  was  set,  never  let  go,  and  Jennet 
had  to  stick  to  it  till  her  stent  was  done.  Sometimes 
when  she  was  very  tired  she  would  suggest,  "Perhaps 
they  forgot  to  feed  the  chickens  this  morning,"  or 
"Mother  says  she  hasn't  eggs  enough  to  make  the  pound- 
cake, shall  I  go  hunt  some?" 

"Dear  me!  sit  still,  child,  some  one  else  can  do  that; 
you  are  learning  to  spin,"  Grandmother  would  reply. 

Grandmother  spun  the  warp  herself,  Jennet  the  filling, 
and  Aunt  Betsy  wove  the  cloth.  The  blankets  were  fin- 
ished and  pressed  at  the  mill  and  laid  away  with  fennel 
between  for  Jennet's  own,  but  this  was  the  beginning 
and  end  of  her  spinning  days.  The  last  of  the  nineteenth 
century  had  little  use  for  homemade  yarn  or  cloth. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

JENNET  HAS  A  BEAU. 

WHEN  Billy  Bates  sold  his  tavern  to  Mr.  Thornton 
and  it  was  turned  into  temperance  house,  the  good  peo- 
ple of  Ravenna  couldn't  do  enough  to  show  their  appre- 
ciation. Among  other  things  an  oyster-supper  was  occa- 
sionally held  in  the  ball-room  as  a  benefit  for  the  worthy 
man.  All  but  the  harum-scarum  from  Bangall  and  up 
among  the  hills  attended  with  their  wives,  and  it  was 
a  very  important  social  occasion.  Jennet  had  often  gone 
with  her  parents  to  these  parties,  and  her  part  had  been 
to  keep  quiet  and  listen  to  what  her  elders  were  saying. 

But  now  she  was  fourteen,  seen  oftenest  in  a  crimson 
merino  frock,  trimmed  with  black  velvet,  her  much- 
prized  ornaments  a  gold  lead-pencil  and  heart-shaped 
slide  won  as  a  philopena  present  at  a  recent  donation 
party.  Her  chestnut  hair  hung  in  long  thick  braids  such 
as  belong  only  to  the  vigor  and  luxuriance  of  youth. 

When  Harry  Van  Dechten  invited  her  to  go  with  him 
to  one  of  these  oyster-suppers  it  never  occurred  to  her 
to  say  anything  but  yes,  just  as  she  had  always  done 
when  it  was-  a  question  of  sliding  down  hill  or  going 
on  an  errand  to  the  Brick  Store.  Indeed  when  she 
thought  it  over  she  was  a  little  flattered — someway  it 
felt  so  like  being  grown  up.  She  never  thought  about 
her  parents  at  all,  that  they  might  miss  her  or  be  lonely 
without  her,  she  just  had  a  feeling  of  terrible  depression 
once  in  a  great  while  when  a  suspicion  struck  her  heart 
of  what  "they"  might  possibly  say  or  think. 

When  the  time  came  she  stood  by  the  window  breath- 
ing pictures  into  the  frosty  pane.  First  the  silhouette  of 
a  house  with  two  flanking  chimneys — it  was  the  ready 


168  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS 

skill  of  long  habit,  her  mind  was  elsewhere.  "I  wish 
he  wouldn't  come — Oh,  dear!  What  if  Uncle  Jeremiah 
should  see  me!  What  if  he  should  say  something" — it 
was  a  pig  now,  first  the  head,  then  the  snout  then  the 
legs  and  tail — "out  loud — before  the  others — but  maybe 
he  won't  be  there — maybe  his  leg  up  in  the  graveyard'll 
be  aching  so  he'll  have  to  tend  to  getting  it  turned 
round — maybe — but  I  wouldn't  want  to  go  with  father 
and  mother  now — not  but  what  I'd  a  great  deal  rather 
go  with  them — but" — there  was  the  jingle  of  bells  out- 
side, her  cheek  flushed,  there  were  steps,  the  door  burst 
open — no  more  time  for  self -inspection;  she  must  get 
on  her  things  and  receive  advice. 

Harry  had  a  fine  horse  and  new  cutter.  He  flourished 
his  whip,  the  bells  rang  out  merrily,  and  away  they  flew 
over  the  glistening  snow  in  the  light  of  a  full  moon. 
Everything  seemed  quite  natural  so  far;  there  was  lots 
of  talk  and  laughing,  for  they  were  schoolmates,  and  had 
almost  every  interest  in  common,  and  when  they  got  to 
the  room  where  the  crowd  was  already  gathered  the 
happy  consciousness  still  lingered.  The  door  into  the 
hall  was  choked  with  people,  and  they  had  to  wait  their 
turn  to  get  through.  Suddenly  Jennet  heard  a  whisper : 

"Jennet  Lee's  got  a  beau!  Well,  what  d'ye  think  of 
that!" 

To  complete  her  misery,  Jeremiah  Dix  was  sitting  at 
the  table  immediately  in  front  of  her  talking  with  her 
Uncle  Andrew.  His  back  was  toward  her;  there  were 
seats  just  across  the  room — if  only  she  could  get  there 
safely  she  thought  she  could  feel  like  herself.  She 
tried  to  move  in  the  shadow  of  Harry — in  the  shadow 
of  Harry ! — poor  Harry  was  at  least  half  a  head  shorter 
than  she. 

"Hello!"  cried  Uncle  Jeremiah,  whirling  suddenly 
around,  "There's  a  team !  It  ought  to  draw  well  in  har- 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  169 

ness — the  Baptist  deacon's  son  and  the  Presbyterian 
deacon's  daughter.  What  do  you  say,  eh?"  and  he  looked 
around  at  the  crowd  chuckling,  while  Jennet  prayed  God 
silently  to  keep  her  on  her  feet  till  she  could  get  to  a 
chair. 

"Likely  to  be  blue  blazes  when  they  get  to  discussing 
baptism,"  said  Uncle  Andrew. 

"There  comes  Elder  Stark,"  said  Aunt  Lucia,  ready 
to  turn  attention  from  Jennet's  flaming  cheeks. 

"H'm !  bad  for  our  appetites,"  remarked  Uncle  Jere- 
miah. 

"How's  that?"  asked  Uncle  Andrew. 

"If  they  ask  him  to  say  grace  before  meat,  we  may  go 
hungry.  He  makes  the  longest  prayer  of  anyone  in  the 
county." 

As  they  were  taking  their  seats  Jennet  heard  a  loud 
whisper : 

"That  red  merino  dress  of  Jennet's  wasn't  made  to  go 
to  meeting  in,  all  trimmed  up  with  black  velvet." 

And  the  answer — "She's  getting  old  enough  to  go  out 
in  company.  Now  she's  begun  having  beaux,  I  suppose 
we  won't  see  any  more  home-spun  woollens  and  turkey- 
red  calicoes." 

The  long  table  stretched  quite  across  the  ball-room. 
Jennet  and  Harry  sat  at  one  end,  with  her  father  and 
mother  away  at  the  other.  They  looked  very  strange 
without  her.  I  think  a  kind  of  aching  pain  was  in  their 
hearts,  as  if  some  one  had  stepped  between  them  and 
their  treasure — a  first  foreboding  of  the  future.  Mean- 
time, Jennet  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  was  under  the 
necessity  of  making  conversation.  She  had  often  heard 
it  made.  She  had  always  thought  her  mother  could 
make  it  the  best  of  anyone.  She  tried  to  remember  what 
she  did,  but  the  dreadful  pauses  frightened  her  so  that 
she  couldn't  think.  What  an  odd  mess  she  was  making 


170 

of  it !  Words  stuck  in  her  throat  when  the  school- 
examiner  and  his  wife  opposite  tried  to  help  her  out. 
Her  mind  was  skipping  about  hither  and  yon,  nowhere 
long  enough  to  capture  an  idea.  She  couldn't  think  what 
the  matter  was — she  never  guessed  herself  prey  to  a 
disease — that  most  virulent  of  all  social  diseases — What 
will  they  say? 

Supper  over,  the  company  scattered  into  little  con- 
genial groups  and  she  began  to  feel  less  awkward. 

Just  ahead  of  her  and  to  one  side,  sat  Miss  Nora, 
the  village  teacher.  Some  ill-humored  persons  were  al- 
ready beginning  to  whisper  "old  maid,"  and  shake  their 
heads,  but  to  her  the  romance  of  life  was  just  budding. 
At  her  side  was  the  Baptist  minister  from  Platter,  a 
widower  of  some  years'  standing.  He  had  already 
brought  her  to  the  supper  on  two  occasions,  so  that  now 
as  they  sat  lost  in  conversation,  knowing  nods  and  smiles 
were  passed  about  the  room.  Just  then  two  boys  slid 
into  the  seat  behind  them,  evidently  with  a  purpose. 
The  dominie  was  discoursing  sermon  -  like,  and  Miss 
Nora  paying  rapt  attention.  Every  few  moments  she 
put  up  her  hand  to  brush  off  something  from  her  neck, 
then  in  another  minute  he  would  do  the  same.  Mean- 
time, the  boys  were  doubled  over  with  silent  laughter. 
Gradually  the  conversation  in  the  room  dropped  to  a 
hum  as  curiosity  drew  all  eyes  to  the  one  spot.  Then 
they  saw — each  boy  had  a  straw  which  he  now  and  then 
touched  lightly  to  the  necks  in  front.  Suddenly  Miss 
Nora  put  up  her  handkerchief  and  brushed  and  brushed, 
still  hanging  to  the  preacher's  every  word,  and  with  a 
final  vehement  thrust  exclaimed  in  her  clear  high-pitched 
voice : 

"Dear  me !  how  annoying  these  flies  are !" 

"Flies,  Miss  Nora,  possess  also  the  'one  touch  of  na- 
ture'— they  too  pursue  the  sweets — but  I  can't  see  what 


WHEN  FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  171 

they're  buzzing  around  me  for,"  and  the  minister  began 
vigorously  shooing. 

It  was  the  pin-prick  that  burst  the  bubble  of  pent-up 
laughter.  The  boys  broke  into  a  roar  in  which  everybody 
joined.  Miss  Nora  and  the  widower  took  the  joke  good- 
humoredly;  no  doubt  they  were  too  happy  just  then  to 
be  disconcerted  at  anything,  for  there  was  a  wedding 
soon  and  a  honeymoon  in  the  parsonage. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 
L'ENvoi. 

JENNET  was  now  past  fourteen.  She  had  been  to  the 
district  school,  had  learned  to  read  in  Sander's  First,  had 
been  taught  in  the  Second  the  prudence  of  being  obedient 
by  seeing  how  Caroline  playing  too  long  with  her  tea 
had  lost  her  ride  in  the  carriage.  In  the  Third  she  was 
exhorted  to  beware  the  voice  of  flattery  by  the  tale  of  the 
Spider  and  the  Fly.  She  had  conquered  fractions,  Eng- 
lish money,  and  square  root,  but  in  English  grammar  had 
mostly  failed.  The  select  school  had  introduced  her  to 
physiology,  American  history,  and  the  dramatic  part  of 
school  exhibitions.  She  had  committed  Matthew,  Mark 
and  Luke,  had  learned  the  Shorter  Catechism  and  recited 
it  before  the  minister,  receiving  therefor  a  Bible  with 
gilt  clasps  and  the  donor's  name  inside. 

The  games  of  hide  and  seek,  one  old  cat,  and  making 
pencils  from  soft  rocks  in  the  brook  had  lost  their  charm. 
For  chewing  gum  in  school-time  she  had  "been  stood" 
on  the  floor  in  front  of  everybody,  and  for  idleness  had 
had  to  sit  between  two  boys  whose  misery  was  at  least 
as  great  as  hers.  She  had  picked  up  chips  from  the 
wood-pile,  washed  milk-pans,  and  piled  them  pyramid 
fashion  to  scald  in  the  sun.  She  had  sewed  long  seams 
over  an  1  over,  hem-stitched  pillow-cases  and  put  her 
initial  in  the  corner  with  the  cross-stitch. 

She  had  at  last  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  had 
pricked  her  fingers  and  torn  her  clothes  on  the  sharp 
thorns  of  the  blackberry  bushes  deep  in  the  pitfalls  of 
the  wood-lot.  She  had  been  to  Fourth  of  July  celebra- 
tions, had  ridden  eighteen  miles  to  attend  the  County 
Fair,  had  heard  P.  T.  Barnum  tell  of  his  cherry-colored 


WHEN   FOLKS  WAS  FOLKS  173 

cat,  seen  ladies  ride  horseback  for  a  purse,  and  had  lux- 
uriated in  the  possession  of  half  a  dozen  peaches. 

She  had  learned  geography  from  a  specialist  by  dron- 
ing rhymes — "On  the  south  of  Maine  is  Passamaquoda 
i>ay — Passamaquoda  Bay."  The  flourishes  of  the  Spen- 
cerian  system  she  got  from  a  writing  teacher  with  very 
slick  hair  who  wore  store-clothes.  The  art  of  singing 
was  acquired  winter  evenings  in  the  old  school-house 
where  she  sang  Do-re-me  to  time  beaten  out  by  some 
youth  earning  money  to  go  to  college,  and  she  had  eaten 
philopenas  with  the  boys  during  intermission.  She  had, 
read  the  exciting  stories  of  Mrs.  E.  D.  N.  Southworth, 
and  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin"  as  serials  in  the  "National 
Era,"  and  was  saturated  with  romantic  ideas  from  the 
"Scottish  Chiefs." 

Her  curls  had  been  straightened  into  long  braids,  her 
dresses  lengthened  till  the  pantalets  no  longer  showed 
their  white  lace  edge,  and  the  dress-up  silk  apron  had 
disappeared. 

So  far  every  necessary  want  had  been  supplied  with- 
out her  thought.  Things  broken  or  torn  had  been 
mended,  those  lost  replaced  without  scolding.  All  com- 
mon things  had  come  along  as  a  matter  of  course.  Her 
mother's  smile,  her  mother's  arms,  her  thoughtful  loving 
care,  her  father's  affection  and  daily  provisions  were 
everyday  matters  for  which  she  felt  no  special  thank- 
fulness. 

She  had  had  her  first  stir  of  longing  for  the  vague 
future  and  all  it  promised  of  things  different  from  what 
she  had  and  was.  Already  her  desire  would  wring  from 
it  more  than  she  could  express — more  than  she  knew. 
No  wonder  that  later  on,  with  a  little  more  experience, 
she  was  tortured  by  the  thought  that  she  had  not  loved, 
had  not  appreciated  her  parents  as  they  deserved. 


174  WHEN  FOLKS  WAS   FOLKS 

It  was  1854  when  the  family  council  was.  called  to  con- 
sider the  question  of  sending  Jennet  away  from  home 
for  ;urther  education.  An  academy  lately  reorganized 
and  just  the.i  celebrating  its  fiftieth  anniversary,  in  the 
neighboring  town  of  Oxford,  was  decided  on  as  having 
the  fewest  drawbacks.  The  plan  was  pleasing — it  might 
prove  the  fulfillment  of  all  the  things  she  so  vaguely  de- 
sired. Thus  the  child  was  no  more,  and  with  her  first 
adieu  to  home  we  take  leave  of  Jennet,  peering  anxious 
but  not  dismayed  into  the  impenetrable  future. 

THE  END. 


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